


Bono Malum Superate

by petals_and_bones



Category: Hereditary (2018)
Genre: Cult of Paimon, Death, Demonic Possession, Drug Use, F/M, Fluff, Generally Terrible Things, Hereditary Spoilers, Smut, Teen Angst, Violence, because peter needs copious amounts of weed to function, dark as fuck, just add demons, oh yeah and also, protect peter graham at all costs, typical high school crush, weird demon sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24307738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petals_and_bones/pseuds/petals_and_bones
Summary: As the pieces start to fall into place for King Paimon's rebirth, nothing could get in the way of his plans. After all, no one would care enough to protect a poor, broken boy like Peter Graham...No one except you.
Relationships: Peter Graham/Reader
Comments: 26
Kudos: 106





	1. Invitation

You’d begun having weird dreams.

They weren’t all bad, really. You’d describe most of them as just “weird”. Atmospheric chanting, repetition of symbols, the occasional figure- too blurry to ever focus on, but you could still hear its faint whispers before you woke up. It was the oddest thing.

You’re reflecting on these dreams, eyes far away, when your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Suddenly you aren’t in your bizarre dream world, but back in Mr Davis’ English class. Not like anyone had noticed your attention drifting. You pull it out and glance at the text, careful not to let him see you.

“Are you going to Aaron’s party?”

You don’t know how Bridget manages to pay attention _and_ have time to send texts in class. You type back “I don’t know yet” and send the text on its merry way. Her response is momentary.

“Your soulmate is probs gonna be there ;)”

_Ugh_. The teasing is one thing, but the blatant sarcasm about it is worse.

“He’s gonna be too zoinked to notice me anyway lolol”

You don’t tell her the _real_ reason for your hesitation- that you don’t want to watch your crush flirt with her all night.

“Don’t be a pussyyyy he’d like you if you’d just get up the nerve to talk to him! Your taste in men is weird. But I love ya anyway :D”

The corners of your mouth pull up in a smile.

“Maybe”

The conversation immediately stops once your teacher ends his lecture and starts giving out weekend assignments. Cheek resting in your hand, you glance over at the aforementioned boy, looking utterly bored at his desk. You’ve never really known what it is about the guy, but you’ve liked him since your freshman year of high school. That black, wavy hair and those soft dark eyes, like liquid pools you could get lost in...

You’re in the process of getting lost in your thoughts instead when he turns and looks at you. Your cheeks flush with heat as you turn away, hoping he didn’t catch you staring. It’s only then that you become aware of the teacher’s voice, saying your name. Startled, you blurt out, “Huh?”

He huffs slightly. “The research paper, due on Wednesday. You’ll be working with Peter. Or do I need to send you a smoke signal to get my point across?”

Oh, God. How much can a human blush before their face explodes?

“Uh.” People are looking at you. “Okay.”

The assignments continue to drone on, and you risk another look at Peter. He’s smiling. It doesn’t matter to you if he’s laughing at you, but just seeing him smile at you is enough. You smile back.

  
~*~  
  


You’re floating on Cloud 9 with no chance of coming down by the time you’ve driven back home for the evening. Peter Graham’s phone number. Which he _gave_ to you. _Freely_. If life gets better than this, you aren’t sure how. You’re completely distracted throughout dinner, you can barely focus on your homework, and when you finally decide to send him a text, it’s like your brain is suddenly replaced with an egg. 

A stupid egg.

“Hi :)”

By the time he responds with “Who’s this?”, you’re already scrambling to send a second text. Of course he didn’t have your number in his phone. You send your name and clarify that the two of you are working on the project together- as if he didn’t already know that.

“Ohh haha hey! What’s up”

Oh lord, he’s making small talk. Your heart flutters.

“Not much! Don’t really wanna start this tbh, what are you up to?”

You don’t peg yourself as an overthinker, and yet here you are putting way more planning than necessary into being aloof. ‘I’m trying too hard,’ you think, ‘I should just let things progress naturally, be myself. I can do this.’

It’s another seventeen minutes before he responds.

“Me either, I’m doing okay. Getting stoned lol. Wbu?”

_Too zoinked to notice you, indeed._

A couple more hours pass in an ease of smalltalk about school and your home lives. You find out that Peter has a mom who gets on his nerves and a sister who is, in his words, “Kinda weird but mostly just misunderstood,”. You tell him he surrounds himself with a certain type of person. He tells you not to worry, that you seem like the good kind of weird. Eventually you both decide to meet up at Peter’s house to work on this project that Friday, and he sends you his goodnights.

That night, the comfort of your blankets and the softness of your mattress feel like soaring clouds. And your dreams whisper the same words over and over again: _Zazas, zazas, nasatanada zazas_. 

  
~*~  
  


By the time you pull up to the Graham house in your pickup truck that Friday, you’re a nervous wreck. Thoughts crash around in your mind of what could happen with the two of you, _alone_ , in _Peter Graham’s_ room. Your thoughts are almost erratic enough for you to miss how grand the house is- surprising, you hadn’t ever really thought of him as a rich kid. You get out of your truck and start crunching through the snow up towards the house, but stop when you spy a lone figure in the trees. One of Peter’s parents? Hesitantly, you raise a hand in greeting, but they just… stand there.

‘Huh. Whatever.’

You stamp the snow off of your shoes and ring the doorbell, and you hear a muffled flurry of movement inside the house. And then the door opens- but it isn’t Peter. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair and warm, tired eyes is smiling at you, gesturing for you to come inside. A cheerful looking golden retriever stands at his feet, tail wagging. “Well, come in! Don’t stand out in the cold. You’re, um,” he recollects and attempts to pronounce your name. You politely correct him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr Graham.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Please. Call me Steve. Maybe even Dad if you come over often enough-”

“ _Dad!_ ”

Peter comes rushing down the stairs, eager to cut off Steve, who’s still chuckling at his own joke. You wave shyly, but it goes unnoticed by Peter who’s still flustered at his father’s introduction. The dog steps toward you and sniffs curiously. You respond by rubbing him between the ears, taking a quick glance around the foyer. You aren’t sure what the Grahams do for a living, but whatever it is, it keeps them well-stocked.

“I’ll leave you two kids alone. It was very nice to meet you,” Steve mispronounces your name _again_ , maybe on purpose, and smiles kindly before walking into one of the adjacent rooms, the dog obediently following behind. Leaving just you and Peter. And a whole lot of awkward silence.

“Well-” he starts, pointing over his shoulder. “Let’s go upstairs before the rest of my family decides to say hi.”

A quick tour of the upstairs hallway reveals mostly closed doors, save for one that’s slightly ajar. A small figure darts out of view as you and Peter round the corner, and the door quickly closes as the two of you pass by. You slow down for a minute, unsure of what to say, but Peter just looks back at you and shrugs. “Charlie. She’s a little shy.”

“Should I try to introduce myself?”

He shakes his head. “She’ll come say hello if she likes you enough. Or, like, if you give her chocolate? She’ll be your best friend.” A wry smile tugs at his lips. “She’s, like… super allergic to nuts, though.”

The cold, oppressive distance of the house gives way when you enter Peter’s room. Slight patchouli smell, a guitar and keyboard propped up against the wall, the whole room awash with warm yellow light. You still feel nervous, but less _on edge_. He sits on the edge of his bed idly. “You can toss your coat anywhere, doesn’t really matter. What’s the plan?”

Peeling off your coat, you set it down next to your bookbag and pull out your laptop. “Maybe finish an outline for this paper together, and then we each write half of it…?” He nods, eyes meeting yours briefly. “Sure.”

You sit down- on _Peter Graham’s bed_ \- next to him, opening your computer.

The both of you genuinely work for maybe ten minutes before the project is abandoned.

“Are you, uh, gonna go to Aaron’s party next week?” You ask breezily. Peter raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know he was having one, but- yeah, probably. Are you?”

“Maybe. I was hoping you’d be there.”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and your heart rate spikes. _Fucking idiot_. You don’t want to turn to see Peter’s reaction. You turn to see Peter’s reaction. He’s looking at you with wide eyes, a mixture of amusement and bewilderment on his face. “Really?” 

You can feel your cheeks turning pink. “Maybe. I dunno. Shut up.” The corners of your mouth can’t help but pull up into a smile. “I just think it sounds like fun.”

“I might have to go then.” His voice sounds warm and at ease. Your eyes meet, and in this moment, you completely forget about Bridget. You hope he does too.

The moment is interrupted by a knock on the half-open door.

A worried-looking woman opens the door fully, her lips pursed. She’s wearing a pair of magnifying glasses on a headset- a goofy accessory that starkly contrasts the intense look on her face. You feel Peter tense up, and his smile disappears. “Mom, this is-”

“I know. Hi.” She gives you an attempt at a smile, her hardened eyes turning back to her son. Did the room get colder somehow?

“Peter, send your friend home. We just got a call from hospice- I think it’s time to go be with your grandmother.” Without another word, she disappears from the doorframe. You hear the door to his sister’s- Charlie’s- room open down the hall.

Peter grimaces apologetically as you stand up to get your stuff. “I’m sorry. It’s my grandma- she’s sick.” He doesn’t offer up any more explanation, not that you’d need it. You know what hospice means.

He walks you down to the front door- you hear a muffled conversation coming from Charlie’s room as you pass by- and stops with his hand on the knob while you pull on your coat. “About the project-”

You cut him off. “I can manage. Let me know if you want me to talk to Mr Davis about what’s going on. He’s a pretty understanding asshole.” 

Peter grins. 

“Cool. Text me.”

It’s already dark by the time you get in your truck, and you crank it up to let the cab warm up a little bit. As you sit in the front seat, hot air blasting from the A/C, you look up at the house’s attic window. A glimmer of light passes by, as if someone were swinging around a flashlight. At the same moment, you think you hear a faint whisper from outside your car. You chalk it up to the wind in the trees. And when you look back up at the attic window, the light is gone.


	2. Infatuation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Hereditary begin here in earnest.

_You’re walking through a forest. It’s night, and there are no stars in the sky above you. There is snow on the ground, but it isn’t cold. A distant cacophony of noise filters through the trees, a hellish chorus of cymbals, horns, and wailing voices. Your fluid, dreamlike pace quickens, and suddenly in front of you is an enormous bonfire. Countless figures lie prostrate around it, and the air rings with their shrieks and cries. A tall, willowy silhouette approaches you- a man, but he has a beautifully feminine face. As you parse the scene as well as your subconscious state can allow, the figure parts his full lips._

_“Mourn.”_

_A command so powerful and intense that it brings you to your knees immediately, and your moans of sorrow match that of the others around you. Your chest expands with an empty, alone feeling so intense and hollow you fear you may burst. But- who are you mourning?_

_In an act of curiosity that mirrors defiance, you look up at the figure._

_“Mourn who?”_

_His lips turn down into a deep scowl. It is obvious that you are not to ask questions._

_“The Queen. The Matriarch. She who has brought you together has left you again- and in her place, chaos.”_

_To punctuate his words, a great wail of anguish rises from the group. You scramble to your feet. The man doesn’t seem to like this either._

_“I don’t know- I can’t- Who are you? Wh-where is this?!” You ask fearfully, teeth chattering from the sudden cold. A few mourners are looking at you. You recognize some of them- faces from around town, usually acknowledged with a smile or a wave, now twisted in grief by the fire’s light._

_You take a couple of steps back. The fire pulses, like it’s alive._

_The figure takes a step forward. His voice is smooth and low, yet possesses a deep commanding aura that makes your knees tremble. “You are needed. You will be next.” Your name echoes through the trees._

_In a panicked haze, you turn to run. The trees burst into flames around you, smoldering against the snow. You scream, with nowhere to run, as the flames begin to lick your flesh-_

You wake up, alone, scream caught in your throat. There is no fire. There are no trees. You’re alone in your bedroom, your cheap LED lights twinkling dimly above your bed. Laptop still open on your bed, still displaying Peter’s facebook page. You grimace with embarrassment and slam it shut, rolling over and pulling your duvet tighter around you. 

The trees outside your window whisper against one another for the rest of the night. 

~*~

The next morning, you’re driving to school when your phone buzzes beside you. You glance down at it, excited to see that the notification is from Peter, and look back up just in time to nearly slam into the car in front of you. Your foot meets the brake pedal hard, and the truck comes to a jolting halt. 

Your heart hammers in your chest as your hands white-knuckle the steering wheel.

As you stay frozen, the light turns green, and the person in the car in front of you peels off. A glimmer ripples across their back window, similar to the one you saw in the Grahams’ attic. Unnerved, you ease your truck through the intersection, not looking at your phone again until you get to the school parking lot.

When you finally turn your truck off and look at your phone, you’ve gotten three more texts from Peter.

“Hey”

“Are you at school yet?”

“Text me backkk we gotta talk about the project”

“Wait no dont text me back yet I don’t want you to crash and die pls”

You snort and type out a quick reply.

“Just crashed and died thanks to you. See you in a minute as a vengeful ghost.”

Your finger pauses over the send button. ‘ _Shit, his grandmother’s funeral was yesterday._ ’ You delete it and try again, “Just got here, see you soon”, this time pressing send. Still somewhat shaken, you get out of the truck and make your way to class.

Peter’s standing outside of the classroom, arms crossed, eyes scanning the sea of people flowing through the hallway. He looks a little tired- you wonder for a minute if he had the same kind of weird dream that you did. You approach him and try to offer a comforting smile. “Hey, you.”

Given all that’s happened, and the fact that you haven’t seen each other since Friday, you half-expect his attitude to be stone cold. But instead he returns your smile with a warm shyness that makes you melt inside.

“Hey.”

“So, about the project,” you start, but he cuts you off. 

“Don’t sweat it. Davis got a note from my Dad explaining about the funeral and I got us an extension. You’re welcome, by the way.” 

You roll your eyes. “If I had ever met your grandma, I would have commended her timing.” 

Incredibly, he laughs.

“If I’d known her better, I would have said the same thing.”

The silence between you stretches uncomfortably, and you feel the urge to say something welling up inside you. Then, thankfully, you remember the gift in your bag. “Oh, by the way…” Peter glances back over at you, eyebrows raised, as you root around inside your bookbag for a minute. “I know it’s in here somewhere- ah.”

You pull a package of M&Ms from your bag and shyly offer them.

“I remember you said your sister likes chocolate… I thought these might cheer her up.”

A beat of silence passes between you, and he slowly takes them out of your hand. Your fingers brush slightly, sending a deliciously electric wave of excitement surging up your spine. When your eyes meet his, you’re surprised to see how… _touched_ he looks. His eyebrows are raised, and his lips are parted slightly, corners barely pulled into a smile. 

“I… wow, that’s really sweet.” He says quietly. “Oh, wait, no-”

“-nuts, right.” You cut him off with a nod. “I remembered.”

“... thank you.” He murmurs, tucking the candy into his pocket and glancing over his shoulder at the classroom door. “I guess we should probably go on in. I’m ready for morning naptime anyway.” When he turns back to look at you, the kindness in his dark eyes is almost enough to leave you breathless. 

All you can do is nod, completely dazzled. “Yeah. Right behind you.”

~*~

A couple hours later, you and Bridget are eating lunch outside in the courtyard when she nudges your leg with hers. “Sooo… did I hear wedding bells on my way into class this morning?”

You snort. “No, Bridge. I told you we were just talking about our project.”

“Right, because your face is always so red when you’re around him.” She grins. “Look, I’m gonna get you two together at that party tonight. A good host like Peter could use a girl like you.”

You hesitate, looking at her quizzically. “Wait, I thought _Aaron_ was hosting the party.”

“Shh, you know what I meant.” Bridget waves a dismissive hand, crunching down on a carrot stick. “Besides, it’s not like you really have any chance of striking out, right?”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing in her face. ‘ _You know he likes_ you _, right?_ ”

“... I guess not.” You respond instead, looking back down at your hands. The echo of Peter’s touch still lingered from earlier, and you find yourself aching for it again- wanting to see his smile, and hear his laugh. Wanting to take care of him. 

You’re on your way to your next class, lost in the daze of teenage infatuation, when your phone buzzes with a notification. You hope it’s a text from Peter, but instead it’s an email from an address you don’t recognize.

From: joanieluv@nmail.com

Subject: COME JOIN US! Losing A Loved One: Grief Recovery

Have you experienced a recent trauma? Are you having trouble moving on? Do you feel alone or misunderstood in the face of grief? If so, you are not alone. There are others in a similar situation. And sometimes, all one needs is hope among mutual understanding!

Please come join us this Wednesday at 6:30 pm at-

Eyebrows furrowed, you scan the rest of the email. It gives the address of some local Catholic high school, and dates of future meetings. Aside from your email in the receiving address line, there’s no indication that it was meant for you to receive. You shrug and delete it, slipping your phone back into your pocket.

Must have been some kind of mix-up.

Your thoughts are soon back to Peter and the party that evening, and the rest of the school day passes in a rose-colored blur. The light of the early sunset is painting the bare trees orange and gold as you drive back home in your battered pickup, your mind far away with fantasies and hopes.

Bridget sends you a snap as you pull into your driveway: a dog-filtered video of her and the outfit she’s planning to wear. 

“Pick something that makes you look like a goddess!!! ;)”

You hop out of the truck, slinging your bookbag over your shoulder and flouncing up to your house. The 80s makeover montage music is already playing in your head before you’re in your room, and you’re so caught up in your own mental chick flick that you don’t notice the man who’s been standing across the street, watching you through your window. Completely still, just like he was outside the Grahams’ house.

‘ _Nothing can go wrong tonight,_ ’ you think, ‘ _nothing at all._ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who have paid close attention in the movie- I like to think those are the M&Ms that Charlie is eating before she goes with Peter to the party. :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Disruption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for following my story! I got distracted by life, but now that there's some interest I'll do my best to update more often. 
> 
> Anyway, I'll give y'all what you came for. ;)

“Hey, let’s do _shots_!”

The resulting chorus of encouraging shouts nearly blows you back as you open the door to Aaron’s place. The warm, sweaty air of the packed living room is a stark contrast to the snow on the ground outside, and you peel off your jacket quickly while scanning the room. No sign of Peter yet, but that doesn’t matter- you’re a little early.

You spot Bridget, joining in with the group in the kitchen who are lining up shot glasses. “Hey!” Tossing your jacket onto the floor beside the door, you weave your way over and tap her on the shoulder. Her flushed, excited face splits into a wide grin as she exclaims your name.

“Come on, get in on this!” She enthusiastically thrusts a shot glass into your hand. A little bit of the clear liquid sloshes onto your fingers.

“What is it?” You ask over the growing crowd noise. She shrugs.

“It’ll get you drunk!”

With an equally wide grin and a careless shrug, you wait until the countdown ends and then slug the shot back. It’s _strong_ \- maybe vodka- and you feel your sinuses burning as you swallow before you can taste it. 

Your shot glass hits the counter with a sharp _tap_ , and you let out a long, pent-up breath. “That hits the spot,” you murmur, slinging your arm around Bridget. She hugs you tight around your waist, cheek tacky with sweat as it brushes yours. 

“I’m-m... sho glad you’re here,” she slurs, leaning into you heavily. “Things’re gonna go sho much sch-schmoother…”Stifling a hiccup, she turns her head and gazes at you with a half-lidded smile.

You have no idea what she’s talking about.

“Heh… I’m happy to be here too, Bridge.” Returning her hug with some hesitation, you keep looking around the room for a certain someone. You don’t see him anywhere. “Hey, do you know if-”

She shushes you with a wavering finger. “Don’t worry about him…! Things’re gonna f-fall into place…” Putting a hand to her forehead, she sighs heavily. “Hoo, fuck. I need to sit down.”

Bridget starts shambling off towards a couch in the living room, leaving you to try to find something to keep your hands occupied. Eventually someone thrusts a PBR into your hand and pushes you out of the ever-crowding kitchen. You mince around the party for more than a few minutes, tapping shoulders and saying hello to acquaintances, when a flash of cold air blows over the humid throng of high-schoolers.

You whirl around to look at the front door. Your heart thumps, blood rushing in your ears, as Peter walks in, cheeks slightly rosy from the cold. 

Someone is with him. A girl? Your eyes narrow, then relax as you recognize her from his facebook pictures. It’s just his sister. She’s clutching a drawing pad like her life depends on it, and she looks around the room with wide, nervous eyes.

‘ _Okay_ ,’ you rationalize to yourself, watching as Aaron starts talking with Peter, ‘ _he’s here. Just go and talk to him. Tell him you’re happy to see him, or- or- something…’_

Your train of thought shrivels coldly as you watch Peter start walking towards the couch that Bridget is sitting on. And then he talks to her, grinning widely.

And she starts smiling _back_.

A combination of fury and humiliation hits you in a wave so palpable you nearly stumble backwards. “Of course,” you murmur softly, “of… course.” You continue to watch, helpless, as Bridget pushes off of the couch and starts following Peter to one of the adjacent rooms. He leans down and speaks quickly and quietly to his sister before they walk into a room and close the door behind them.

You feel yourself sagging under the weight of sudden anguish, chest tightening. So much for tonight going perfectly. You feel like a clown, at a party you’d never be caught dead at otherwise, in too-fancy clothes with too-thick makeup.

Making your way to the patch of floor where you tossed your coat, you catch the eye of Peter’s sister. Charlie. She looks every bit as miserable as you feel, frozen in a sea of movement. Feeling guilty, you walk over to her. 

“Uh… hey. Charlie, right?”

She looks up at you, her expression impossible to read. “How do you know my name?”

“I’m a friend of your brother’s.” You tell her your name, and see a brief spark of recognition in her eyes.

“Oh. You’re the one who gave me the chocolate.” she pauses. “... thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” You give her your most genuine smile of the night, gesturing to the couch. “Wanna sit down? We can hang out while your brother is busy. Have some girl time.”

Looking at the kitchen out of the corner of her eye, she furrows her brow slightly. “I was going to get a slice of cake…”

Following her gaze, you grimace a little and place a hesitant hand on her arm. She flinches, but doesn’t push it away.

“Eh… I don’t think you wanna eat that.” You eye the pile of leftover chopped nuts behind the cake, curling your lip, remembering her nut allergy. “These people are... horrible cooks.”

She nods, obviously disappointed, and sits down on the couch beside you. You start asking her about her hobbies and her classes in school, trying to help her feel a little more comfortable. Between nods and noncommittal silence, you find out that she likes to draw, she thinks some of the other kids at school are stuck up, and that she has a very soft spot for her brother.

“Yeah,” you smile, “he’s a good guy.”

She gazes up into your face for a moment, scanning your features. “You like him, don’t you.”

You feel your cheeks warm up a little. “I mean, he’s a good friend…”

Charlie looks back down at her drawing pad, held firmly on her lap. “I don’t mind if you like him. You’re really nice.”

A gentle warmth spreads through your chest, loosening the tension reserved from your earlier embarrassment. “Thank you, Charlie. You’re really nice, too.”

The two of you are quiet for a moment, and you look away from her to scan the room. The noise from earlier has died down, and you can see several people looking in your direction. Somehow the atmosphere feels colder than it did before you started talking with Charlie. You open your mouth to ask her if she notices it too, when you feel a hand on your shoulder and turn around.

“Hey.” The dark locks of Peter’s hair fall over his liquid eyes, hazy and lidded. “Fancy meeting you here.”

The combination of his hand on your shoulder and the trace of patchouli smell from his clothes is intoxicating, and for a moment you forget all about Bridget and Charlie and the weird vibe from the other partygoers. There’s just him and his disarming smile.

Then your mouth reconnects to your brain. “Uh. Hi.”

He looks between you and Charlie, leaning on the back of the couch. “Glad you two found each other. You okay?” Charlie nods, gaze still cast downward. Peter’s eyes turn back to you. “Thanks for hanging out with her. Want a drink?”

“Where’s Bridget?” You ask before you can stop yourself. He shrugs.

“She’s in the other room, uh, smoking. I asked her where you were and she just said to look around out here.”

The nervous tightness in your chest gives way to a flurry of butterflies. He was talking to her because he wanted to find _you_. Before you can process the new development, he’s nudging your shoulder playfully. 

“C’mon, let’s get a drink. You gonna be okay, Charlie?”

His sister nods again, opening her drawing pad slowly. You hoist yourself off the couch and, before walking to the kitchen, look down at Charlie. “Thanks for keeping me company.” You smile warmly down at her. She meets your gaze calmly, face still strangely expressionless. And then, amazingly, you see the faintest trace of a smile at the corners of her mouth. 

“... you’re welcome.”

Peter jerks his head in the direction of the kitchen, and the two of you wade through the now weirdly-subdued party crowd to grab a couple of beers. He snags two from a sweating cooler and, handing you one, keeps pushing through the tightly packed people until you make it to one of the other rooms. 

The yellow light and humid movement of the party crowd is a stark contrast to the cool darkness of the spare room. Your nervous butterflies return with a vengeance as you realize it’s someone’s bedroom- and there’s no one else there. Peter doesn’t seem bothered, cracking open his beer and sitting on the bed. “So…”

You’re busy fiddling with the tab of your own drink. Anything to keep your hands busy. “So…?”

You can’t see Peter’s face, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “So… uh, you look nice.”

Good thing it’s too dark for him to see you blush. “Always the tone of surprise,” you tease, sipping your beer. You aren’t sure if the room is spinning from your intoxication level or your proximity to him.

“Would you sit down? You’re making me nervous standing in the dark like that.” 

Eyes now adjusted to the darkness, you smooth out the blankets on the bed before sitting down beside him. “I could always turn on some lights.” You barely see him shake his head.

“I prefer it like this.”

“Oh, so you don’t have to look at me, huh?”

He snorts. “You know that isn’t what I meant.”

You feel the bed depress near your hand, and with the adrenaline rush of a skydiver, you edge your fingers toward Peter’s hand. Your heart beats faster than you thought possible as your skin touches his, the air between you two crackling with tension. 

His fingers rest on top of yours, tense and still in the darkness. Outside, you hear the muffled popping of a cork and a number of cheers. The quiet stillness between you two stretches almost to a breaking point before you break it.

“I… thought you liked Bridget.”

You feel him tense. ‘ _Fuck,_ ’ you fret internally, ‘ _I asked the wrong thing._ ’

You start to pull your hand back, when he suddenly grabs it, making you jump.

“I did… for a while.” You turn to look at his silhouette, close to you in the blue darkness, closer than anyone you’ve ever seen. A beat of silence.

“Then I met you.”

His lips are pressed to yours before you can react, slowing everything except your own heartbeat. Suddenly, you’re painfully aware of every detail in the room- the subtle, smoky smell coming off of his clothes, the light from under the door illuminating his dark hair, how he runs his hand up your arm in a gesture that’s all at once consoling and wanting. 

You clutch at his shirt, leaning into his soft lips and letting your eyes close. Blood rushing in your ears, you let out a soft noise as he wraps an arm around your waist. You had fantasized and fretted about this for so long, and now that it was happening- kissing him was as natural as breathing.

And then as soon as it starts, it’s over. His breath warms your lips as he pulls away, hand cupping your lower back. “I-” you start, 

He shushes you, smiling. “I hope that was okay.” 

You respond by kissing his cheek with a wry grin. “I’ll write a _very_ detailed review.” Letting your forehead rest against his, you sigh deeply, your head spinning. He’s smiling- you can just barely see- and the gentle light catches his dark lashes as he looks down.

“This might be bad timing, but… I was wondering if-”

The door to the room suddenly creaks open, flooding your vision with harsh light. You and Peter wrench away from one another quickly, straightening your clothes as you look at the silhouette in the door. The light stings your eyes as you squint. Who _is_ it?

“Peter?” A familiar, husky voice asks.

He coughs, sitting up straight. “H-Hey, Charlie. What’s up?”

She’s silent. He narrows his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

As your eyes adjust to the light, you see Charlie’s face is red and blotchy. And swollen.

_Oh, fuck._

“It’s hard to breathe,” she whimpers. Peter shakes his head, not understanding.

“Wh-What do you mean?”

She speaks again, her voice cracked and strange, as her eyes begin tearing up.

“My tongue is getting bigger.”

All the blood in your body crashes down into your feet, leaving you feeling hollow and terrified. You and Peter bolt upright at the same time, and he moves to scoop up Charlie as you clear a path through the living room. 

“Move! Get out of the way!” You snap, shoving people aside as Peter half-guides, half-carries a wheezing Charlie towards the front door. The cold air is an assault on your skin, needling you like the sharp panic that’s filling your lungs.

“Should I call an ambulance?” You ask him. He shakes his head vigorously as he moves her toward the car. 

“Don’t bust the party. We’ll make it. This has happened before.” His words are sharp and quick, almost orders, as he opens the back door to the car and pushes Charlie in. You struggle for words, just whispering to the girl that she’s going to be okay and how sorry you are. You shut the door as Peter gets into the driver’s side.

“Let me know when you get there,” you say through his open door, “I’m going to sober up a bit and then drive right over.”

He nods, eyes not seeing you, and then slams the door shut and squeals the car out of the driveway. Your mind reels with shock, the kiss forgotten, as you watch the taillights disappear into the darkness. Everything happened so fast, but- her face- you know it was anaphylactic shock. You told her not to eat that cake, because-

You freeze, and your stomach sinks.

You told her not to eat the cake. But you didn’t tell her there were nuts in it.

‘ _Fuck sobering up,_ ’ you think angrily, turning around and stalking back inside. ‘ _They need me. I have to go._ ’ 

Slamming the front door open, you start making your way over to your coat and keys, when Bridget shows up out of nowhere and grabs your shoulders. She snaps you to attention, saying your name loudly.

“Hey, hey! Slow down! We did it, you can relax!”

Your pulse only increases as you look into her glowing, happy face. “What are you talking about, Bridge?” Your voice cracks from stress. You need to leave.

She just keeps smiling, her eyes disturbingly vacant. “You’ve helped pave the way for a new host. You’re getting us closer to our goal. She almost didn’t eat the cake.”

“The… cake…?”

“The faulty host! You almost complicated things. Smart thinking, distracting Peter like that.”

You can feel your mind grappling for reason, vaguely realizing that everyone in the room has stopped talking and are now staring at you with wide smiles. You try to parse your friend’s words. Your eyes drift to the kitchen. There are no more nuts on the chopping board.

Something snaps inside you, and panic is replaced with fury. You don’t know what the hell she’s talking about, but whatever it is, they _wanted_ this to happen. 

“What the fuck do you mean, distract? You fed her the cake?! _Charlie is FUCKING ALLERGIC TO NUTS, BRIDGET!_ ” You scream in her face, hands shaking violently as you clench them into fists.

She only looks mildly perturbed by your outburst. “Aren’t you happy? We’re giving Him a new host, and you’ll be his queen. Why do you resist?”

Quivering with fear and panic, you hold her absent gaze for another second before turning around and grabbing your coat. She protests for you not to leave, but you turn to her with your hand on the doorknob, eyes blazing.

“Fuck you, psycho.” You spit, walking out and slamming the door behind you.

Your mind is reeling as you get in your truck. Your hand is shaking almost too badly to put the key in the ignition, but you manage, steering out of the snowy driveway and out onto the dark road.

You don’t need a GPS to get to the hospital. As you watch the headlights illuminating the empty road in front of you, Bridget’s words keep echoing in your head. The phrases _host_ and _queen_ buzz inside your skull like wasps. What the fuck was she talking about? It was like some kind of cult thing.

 _‘Maybe she was on drugs_ ,’ you try to rationalize. ‘ _She was tripping and talking about weird religious shit. They didn’t know Charlie was allergic to nuts. This isn’t anyone’s fault but mine._ ’

You’re so distracted that you have to swerve to avoid a small, dark shape laying in the middle of the road beside a phone pole. Eyeing it in your rearview mirror, you can’t get a good enough gauge of what it is. ‘ _Must be roadkill._ ’ You think, shifting your bloodshot eyes back to the road. 

You keep driving. Thoughts of Peter’s lips run through your mind, but keep being eclipsed by the horrible image of Charlie’s swollen face. You don’t see the glimmer of light in the backseat of your car, or the people standing still off the side of the highway.

The clock on your truck’s dash reads 1:40 am. And it’s a long drive to the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Charlie.
> 
> You know exactly what the roadkill was.


	4. Temptation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops I caught the writing bug, that means two chapters in a row for you guys. Makes up for the lack of content lately, lmao
> 
> Sexual content warning for this chapter. Non-con elements present. Be warned.

You’re still laying in bed, eyes open and staring up at the ceiling as the first fingers of dawn’s light begin creeping through your window. The LEDs that circle your bed glow in their familiar red-green-blue rotation, fighting the intrusion of the first watery light of day. But the familiarity holds no comfort for you. All you can think about is the night before, the blissful sensation of kissing Peter Graham ripped away from you by the sudden panic of his sister. And worse than that- the bizarre way that everyone else at the party reacted to it. Bridget hadn’t tried to get in contact with you since you left.

The hours that followed afterward are playing in your head on repeat. 

_“Look, I understand if you can’t let me into the emergency room, but can you at least tell me if my friend and his sister are_ here _?” You asked the front desk, exasperated. The overworked nurse behind the computer was fighting the urge to roll her eyes._

_“What was the name again?”_

_“Graham. The patient’s name is Charlie Graham. Kinda short, dirty blonde hair. There would be a teenage boy with her named Peter, black hair and brown eyes.”_

_The nurse typed idly into her computer and, after a beat, shook her head. “No one by that name here. I can’t help you.” She wrinkled her nose, obviously catching a whiff of the alcohol that still clung to your clothes. “I think you should try somewhere else.”_

You sit up, not wanting to dwell on the memory any longer. You had driven back to your house, alone, worried out of your mind. Wherever Peter was, he had several worried text messages and a couple of missed calls from you. You keep trying to rationalize things as you watch your room slowly lighten.

‘ _He took her to a different hospital, or maybe a private practice that already knows their family. Or maybe he took her home and his parents dealt with it. If he isn’t talking to me, that means they’re focusing on her getting better, and that’s okay._ ’

The pain of your teeth gnawing on your lower lip isn’t even felt, just the eventual coppery taste of blood assaulting your mouth unexpectedly. You put a hand up to your lips and the fingers come away red. ‘ _Fuck._ ’

You look at your phone. 6:14 am. No new texts or calls, but another spam email from that grief counseling place. You barely even spare it a glance, putting your phone away and swinging your legs over the side of your bed. Your parents have both already left for work- they won’t have any idea if you skip school today.

Dimly realizing you’re still in the same clothes as the night before, you make your way to the bathroom to take a well-needed shower and rinse the unsettling chill from your body.

The glimmer that passes through your room is unseen by you as you close the door to your bathroom, cranking the shower up as hot as it can go.

~*~

Forty minutes later, you come out of the bathroom followed by a wave of warm steam. The shower had warmed you up considerably, but it did nothing for your throbbing headache. You briefly consider going downstairs for some food, but dimly realize that you don’t have an appetite. You just want to stay in bed, your last refuge, and wait for the unending pound of blood in your ears to give way to needed sleep.

The covers of your duvet welcome you like the arms of a lover, and you wrap yourself up in their warmth

(peter’s warmth)

without even stopping to towel your hair off. Sleep comes eventually, amidst flashes of Charlie’s swollen face and Bridget’s blank stare, and you welcome its darkness.

~*~

_You’re back in the snowy forest from before. How long before, you can’t quite remember- it’s like you’ve always been here. The snow freezes your bare feet as you look up at the trees, extending forever into the night sky above. Beyond, a warm, flickering light illuminates your path. Drawing you in with an unspoken warmth._

_You follow the rays of light that shift through the trees, creating dancing shadows on the snow. A bonfire glimmers in the freezing darkness, giving the haze of your breath an orange glow. In front of it stands a figure, tall, swathed in robes with his arms extended._

_“Come to me.”_

_You try to squint past the fire’s light, to discern his features, but realize you don’t want to know what his face looks like. Your legs propel you forward as you stare up into his shrouded face. You can’t tell for sure, but you think that he’s smiling._

_“Who are you?”_

_He makes a vague gesture with his hands. You notice the fingers, long and delicate, yet large and strong enough to snap your neck in an instant._

_“I am whoever you want me to be. A confidante. An ally. A ruler.” The fire behind him hisses and spits. “A lover.”_

_Your movements slow, before ceasing entirely. You do not want to get any closer to him._

_“I don’t know you,” your dream-mouth says slowly, evenly. “But I love Peter Graham. Not you.”_

_The warm light of the fire goes suddenly cold, a chill hissing around your skin as goosebumps rise in protest. The figure is gone, leaving only the dying embers of the flames. You stare into them dumbly, heartbeat echoing in your ears, before the slim fingers you had observed before curl around your shoulders from behind. The figure’s slow, smooth voice is inches away from your ear. His breath smells like woodsmoke and rotting meat._

_“I know you love Peter. That is why I offer this to you. There is no other in his life that he holds to such a regard as you. You, my dear…” His face is beside yours now. You don’t dare turn around._

_“... you will make this much,_ much _easier.”_

_You stumble from his grasp, and his intoxicating yet fearful voice. Anger overcomes your fear. “What the fuck are you talking about? What do you want with him?!”_

_A low hiss emits from his gritted teeth. A warning. “Do not try my patience. You need not know the process of the ritual. You need only be there for the aftermath. Think of it as a luxury, of sorts.” He steps closer to you, hands open and welcoming. “You will have his love, and he will have your comfort while serving as my vessel. As they say…” His grin is snakelike, horrific._

_“Everyone wins.”_

_You turn away from him to face the fire, and realize that the faint flicker of the embers has been replaced with the dim glow of your LEDs. It’s your bed, warm and inviting, and the stark contrast of its welcoming sight in the middle of the cold, dark forest makes your stomach turn. You grapple for words, when you feel a hand on your shoulder. Not the fearsome slender fingers from before- but a familiar, gentle hand._

_You look over your shoulder. Peter smiles at you softly. “We can be happy, you know. Just the two of us. I can give you what you want.”_

_“P…” you stammer, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Peter, I’m so… so sorry, about everything that happened…”_

_He shushes you, placing a finger over your lips. The gesture makes your pulse quicken. He turns you around fully to face him, curling a hand around the nape of your neck and pulling you in for a kiss._

_His lips, warm and soft, make your worries ebb away. He is all you need. And as he edges you backwards, slowly, towards your warm bed, you let your mind go slack with bliss._

_“I can grant you security,” he murmurs against the skin of your neck, pushing you by your shoulders until you fall back onto your blankets. “I can give you love,” he nips at your ear, “and pleasure,” he caresses the back of your neck, “and everything you’ve ever wanted.”_

_Peter pulls back and you gaze up at him, silhouetted by the light’s soft glow and protected against the oppressive darkness behind him. He smiles, whispering your name softly as his hand caresses your cheek. The desire in his gaze sends hot tongues of desire licking their way up your spine, and you squirm slightly underneath him._

_It comes on suddenly, how badly you want him, and urges you forward into a deeper kiss, all tongues and teeth. “Yes,” you hear him purr, “give in.” His voice, quiet but demanding, urges on a lust that you’ve never felt before. It isn’t long before his nimble hands are tearing through the fabric of your shirt, your skin prickling at the cold- or his touch, there’s so much delicious sensation you can’t be sure._

_His form is bare. How long has it been like that? You don’t remember him taking off his clothes, just the sudden echoing feeling of bare skin against yours. He’s beautiful, and his dark liquid eyes reflect your desire as you ache for more of him. “Please,” you whisper, unsure of what you’re begging for but knowing you need it._

_You whimper, though there’s no fear inside you. Only a deep, resounding ache. Peter purrs_

_(growls)_

_and pins one of your arms back above your head, his eyes dark with lust. Sleek wetness drips down the inside of your thighs as you expose yourself eagerly. Half-formed words and pleas pour from your lips as you gaze up into his eyes and, in a gesture that’s surprisingly tender, Peter cups the side of your face with a small smile._

_Then his smile widens into a wide, sinister grin. One that’s entirely uncharacteristic of the Peter you know. The glimmer that you saw in the Graham’s attic window is present behind the darkness of his eyes, and your own widen in terror as he forces himself inside you._

_Moans turn to screams. What was delicious pleasure a moment ago devolves into a horrible sliding intrusion, and you fight against his hands, holding you fast by your wrist and shoulder._

_“Don’t struggle,” he snarls, the demon in Peter’s skin. His kindness and faux gentleness are gone now, leaving only a dark emptiness and the sinister glimmer. “You’ve already submitted. You’re mine.”_

_An uneven sob escapes your lips as he grunts, hips setting a steady rhythm. Peter’s smell has dissipated, and the smell of rotting meat_

_(fresh roadkill)_

_assaults your senses. You fight the dizzying sensation inside you, of him hitting each perfect spot that makes you see stars. The stars you always fantasized of feeling with Peter are now swirling around the horrific likeness of him, gritting his teeth as he eyes you like a meal._

_His movements are faster now, straining, pumping, whispering encouragements and offers of a perfect life with Peter, promising so much pleasure your senses will dull and then some. His fingers tighten around your wrist as he pulls back, but it isn’t Peter’s eyes you look into when you reach your sobbing climax, not the pulse you see throbbing in his neck as he spends himself inside you with a low, sultry groan._

_The dark, false eyes turn down to you after a long silence, and the smile that isn’t Peter’s splits the face above yours. “All this,” he murmurs, “if you allow it.”_

_And then a dark, sinister chuckle that mingles with your soft cries._

_“You look much more fertile than that Bridget girl, anyway.”_

~*~

You wrench upright in bed with the remnants of a strangled scream caught in your throat. Skin slick with sweat and heart pounding, you just manage to turn your head away from your duvet before you feel hot bile burning the back of your mouth. Your breaths, interrupted by choking, meaty ‘urk’ sounds, stutter over themselves as you clamber off of your bed and stagger to the bathroom.

The moment your knees hit the tile in front of your toilet, spews of bile come frothing from your lips. You feel dizzy as you unload the limited contents of your stomach. You can still feel his hands on you, his thick member inside you, and the memory of the horrible intrusion only makes you more nauseous.

Several minutes later, your heaves slow, and you slump against the wall with exhaustion. You’re shaking like a leaf, sweat cold against your skin. With a shuddering hand, you reach into the fabric of your shorts. Your fingers come out wet. Grimacing, you wipe them off on your shirt and stand up slowly. 

It takes you several minutes to notice that the room is completely dark. You must have slept all day. The house is silent around you. Shouldn’t your parents be home by now?

Your trembling legs carry you back to your bed, and you notice a new text. You must have gotten it while you were sleeping.

It’s from Peter. Just two words.

“Call me”

It’s a few hours old, but you waste no time in pressing the call button beside his contact, curling up in your bed as you do so. It shields you from the oppressive darkness of the house. 

He picks up on the fifth ring.

“Peter…?”

His end is silent for several seconds, long enough that you pull the phone back from your ear to make sure the call is still going. Then his voice, hollow of emotion, speaks quietly.

“She’s gone.”

“What? I- I don’t understand.”

“Charlie’s gone. The hospital… we didn’t…” 

He’s silent for another minute, giving you time to let the news sink in and numb your body. You feel like you’re empty. Absent.

“Peter… I’m s-”

He starts to cry then, his voice in a shuddery low moan so his parents can’t hear. It chills you even further, the ache in your chest gutting you like a knife.

“It… the deer… the _car_ …” A broken sob. “M-my fault…” He’s gasping for air, like he’s drowning. You shush him slowly. 

“Peter. Where are you?”

“... h-home. I’m at home. In… my room…” A struggling gasp. “The nightmares…” he stutters over your name, desperate to get his words out. “I’m so sorry…”

A horrific shriek erupts through your phone’s tinny speakers. You gasp, and hear Peter do the same thing. It only makes him cry harder.

“M-Mom won’t stop… screaming…” his cries are tiny, weak, a pathetic conduit of his own guilt that pale next to the world-ending grief of his mother. Her screams don’t stop. They chill you to the bone.

“Peter. Listen to me. Can you leave?”

Silence.

“Peter?”

“I… I don’t know… I can’t drive that car…”

You pull your phone away and look at its display. 10:46 pm. You put it back to your ear.

“I’m going to be there in thirty minutes, okay? Just… wait for me.”

“... okay.”

He hangs up before you can say another word. Your ears are ringing from his mother’s screams.

~*~

The Grahams’ house is completely dark when you pull up forty five minutes later. You had wasted some time looking around the house for your parents, but they were nowhere to be found. You figured maybe they had gone to see a movie or something. At least you didn’t have to sneak past anyone.

You turn off your headlights some distance away, and silence the loud engine before they’ll be able to hear it. Texting Peter to come outside, you clamber out of your truck and shut the door behind you with a _thud_ , muted by the oppressive darkness.

Your footsteps are muffled by the damp earth as you walk up to the house, looking for any sign of movement inside. You expect a shout from an open window or a covert operation to sneak out the back door. What you don’t expect is the front door to open, and the slow-moving figure of Peter to step out. He sways in place, unable to leave the threshold.

Striding forward quickly, you grab him before his legs give out and pull him into a tight hug. He takes in a shuddering breath, like someone surfacing water, and slumps into your arms with a trembling exhaustion. He’s too tired to cry.

You shush him wordlessly as he keeps gasping for air, clutching you tightly, each shaky gasp warming your shoulder and neck. You can’t see for sure, but you think he’s wearing the same clothes he was when he left the party. You close your eyes, breathing in his scent, and the smell of

(smoke and roadkill)

patchouli makes you relax. The house looms over you both for several minutes, watching your silent exchange of grief.

Finally, he pulls away from you, and your eyes have adjusted to the murky darkness enough to see that his are wide and empty under matted lashes. A voice finally breaks the silence, but it isn’t his.

“Peter…?”

Peter’s head whirls around, and your arms tighten around him instinctively. But it’s just his father, old and tired, standing in the foyer in his rumpled pajamas. His expression, initially one of anger and accusation, softens when he sees you. And he even pronounces your name right.

“Is… everything okay?”

Peter just stays still and quiet in your arms, eyeing his father warily. You consider pushing away from him, but decide against it.

“Mr Graham,” you say slowly, rubbing soft circles into Peter’s back, “I… I heard. I am so sorry for your loss. I just…” your words come out slowly, as not to disturb the thick atmosphere of grief. “I wanted to… be here.”

Steve nods slowly, understanding. He looks so small against the oppressive darkness of the house. “I see. That’s… that’s fine.” A lone cry echoes from upstairs, muffled but still cracking the silence like a whip. The older man flinches, looking over his shoulder. “Ann- my wife and I, are…” he gestures helplessly. 

You hold out a hand to hush him, stepping inside with your other arm around Peter’s trembling shoulders. “I don’t mean to intrude. I can leave if you want.”

Steve sighs, a sound that seems to make him age that much more in front of you.

“You’re… fine. If Peter wants you here, that’s okay.” He pauses, then turns away as another low moan comes from upstairs. “My wife needs her medication. Please excuse me.”

He moves slowly up the stairs and, in a bizarre echo of your first meeting, leaves you and Peter alone in the foyer. You look at the boy next to you. He still looks dazed, staring out into space as if the whole exchange didn’t just happen. You rub his shoulder slowly. “Come on.”

~*~

The warm yellow light of the kitchen turns it into a sanctuary, and you scrounge up a couple of mugs and busy yourself for several minutes before setting down two steaming mugs of hot chocolate on the dining room table. Peter sits there numbly, staring. He doesn’t acknowledge you. He doesn’t have to.

You sit down across from him, hands warmed by the work, and stay silent for a few minutes before looking around the room. His mom has stopped making noises, but you still hear muffled whispers and the occasional creak of the wooden floor somewhere upstairs. Despite Steve’s agreement, you still feel unwelcome- as if the house itself doesn’t want you there. The unpleasant feeling is only made worse by the temperature of the house. It’s almost colder in here than it is outside. You’re grateful for the hot chocolate.

Peter shifts in his seat, his eyes finally focusing on you.

“I’m sorry.”

You shake your head with an attempt at a smile. 

“I should be the one apologizing for showing up at this hour. I just…” His eyes, when they meet yours, are empty. Absent of the normal warmth

(glimmer)

that you’ve come to associate with him. You look back down at your mug and take a deep breath. “I had the most horrible dream.”

His head snaps up at the last word. “You too?”

An unspoken understanding connects the infinite distance between you. You nod. “I’d rather not get into it, but… yeah.” You pause. “And I don’t know where my parents are. I didn’t want to be alone.”

He nods. The vacancy is back. You think of bringing up the night of the party- what feels like a million years ago, now- but instead stay quiet, and just place your hand on the table ahead of you in a silent offering. A few minutes pass before he takes it, and the house’s latent malevolence eases slightly. The two of you say nothing, just sit there and hold hands while your drinks grow cold. 

For the rest of the night, you hold his hand and talk to him about menial things, whether it be a form of distraction or just a quiet noise to fill the silence. He never smiles, but sometimes he’ll give your hand a gentle squeeze.

You hope it’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter is like the longest I've written! I just didn't know when to stop, tbh.
> 
> Protect Peter Graham at all costs.


	5. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some doubts writing this chapter, mostly because it's weird to write anything remotely fluffy given the story's circumstances. But screw it, this is a romance fic, so let there be romance.
> 
> That being said, fluffy gooey teenage love/angst ahead.

The same kitchen, three days later, has lost all of its warmth. You sway in place slightly as you lean against the counter, one hand on the freezing tile, the other fiddling with the hem of your black dress. Mourners circle the living room like crows, aimlessly, offering no comfort but instead remaining a stoic reminder of the house’s great emptiness.

The grey weather outside matches the inside. Everything is misty, opaque, as if glossed over by grief. 

It had been a quiet service. Annie, until recently so catastrophic with her screams, was now only an empty shell. Watching the family huddled together, the too-small coffin being lowered into the ground, the blank faces of the mourners around them, almost made you sick.

Now, you hear muffled voices all throughout the house from the intruders. That’s how you see them- intruders, having no right to interrupt the mourning of the Graham family. To you, they’re part and parcel of the house. The horrible house that now stands as a monument to death, and more than anything else, doesn’t want you in it.

You push back from the counter and, taking a deep breath, walk out of the kitchen.

The living room is beginning to empty, and you see a haggard-looking Steve, lost among the mourners while doing his best to receive their condolences. Peter is nowhere to be found. Nor is Annie. 

You cross the room slowly, an impassable distance, before going to stand with Steve. He looks down at you vacantly and, after shaking several more hands, addresses you quietly.

“I… appreciate your kindness through this.” He seems like he’s about to say more, but swallows his words. You nod solemnly, looking down at your hands. There’s nothing else to say.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a small, dark silhouette watching the two of you from the library window. But when you turn to look at it, it moves away.

~*~

Peter sits on the edge of the tub, eyes wide and vacant, as he holds his cellphone to his ear. The running water pouring from the sink covers up the sound of Annie’s voicemail.

_“Hi sweetheart, it’s mom. Just calling to make sure that you and Charlie are okay and having a good time at the BBQ. All right. Have lots of fun and be safe. Love you both!”_

He slowly lowers the phone, running his thumb over the display. Another voicemail catches his eye. He opens it.

_“Peter, I’m on my way now. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with everyone at the party- I- I’m scared. I hope you and Charlie are okay. I’ll be there soon. Um- see you in a minute.”_

Then another one, right underneath it.

_“Hey, I just left the hospital. I don’t know where you are. Um, I’m gonna head home, but please call me when you get this. Listen, just don’t go back to the party. I’ll explain everything that happened. Please be careful. I lo- um, I hope you’re okay. Bye.”_

He sits there for a minute, listening to your voice, eyes closed. The water in the sink keeps running as his shoulders start to tremble.

~*~

By the time you get home, you’re emotionally wiped out. Your house is still as dark as it was when you left, and neither of your parents’ cars are in the driveway. You’ve gotten somewhat used to this- wherever your parents are going in the evenings, they’re giving you the house to yourself. Though the quiet can be a little unnerving.

You make a small dinner in the kitchen and idly scroll through your phone. You haven’t heard from Bridget since the night of the party, and you’d unadded her on all of your social media. The only notification that catches your eye is another one of those spam emails from the “grief counseling” meeting group.

From: joanieluv@nmail.com

Subject: IT’S NOT TOO LATE! Losing A Loved One: Grief Recovery

Are you feeling lost after the death of a family member or a close friend? You aren’t alone! There are countless others in your position who feel the same way, and sometimes all it takes is a little support to heal from the pain. Our group offers a safe space in which you can vent your feelings to an accepting, warm group of-

You delete the email before you can finish reading it, curling your lip distastefully. ‘ _What a joke._ ’

You walk up to your room, shutting the door behind you and locking it. It was a recent habit you’d gotten into, ever since the dreams had started. It just helped you feel safer.

Laying back on your bed without bothering to change out of your funeral dress, you gaze up at the ceiling. It doesn’t offer any answers. You stay still, letting your mind wander, when suddenly you’re snapped out of it by your phone buzzing.

“Hello?”

Peter whispers your name hoarsely. “ _Are you there?_ ”

You sit straight up. “Peter? What’s the matter?”

“ _I-I tried to sleep in her treehouse and-_ ” his voice cracks, “ _Mom… Mom was_ in there.”

“Peter, she’s grieving, same as you. I’m sure it’s just-”

“ _No, you don’t understand. You don’t. She was in there. That’s- that’s_ Charlie’s _treehouse._ ” He makes another one of those shaky, deep breaths you’ve come to associate with his panic attacks. 

“Breathe. Please-”

“ _She’s everywhere, I-I can’t get away from her. She knows it’s my fault and she just-”_

“It wasn’t your fault. I know it feels that way but it was an honest accident. You have to just breathe right now, please…”

“ _She’s gonna… again, she’s gonna do it again, and this time she won’t even be asleep…_ ”

Your heart beats faster. “What are you talking about?”

His voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “ _The… the match…_ ” He melts into a wreck of sobs. Your chest tightens.

“Peter, please, sweetheart, it’s okay… don’t cry…”

You hear his breathing calm slowly, and he’s quiet for a few moments aside from uneven sniffling. “ _... what?_ ”

Fuck. You backpedal immediately. “I-I mean, it’s just, things are-”

He cuts you off. “ _I… I need to try to sleep. I’ll talk to you at school tomorrow._ ”

He hangs up before you can say goodbye, and the tightness in your chest pulls so taught you can barely breathe. You ruined it. He was grieving, literally crying to you over the phone, and you had ruined it with your stupid pet name. Screwing your eyes shut, you plant face-forward into your pillows and scream into the muffled softness.

Ten minutes later, you’re asleep, the adrenaline and guilt exhausting your body to its limits.

~*~

_“Wake, my love. Come to me.”_

_You can feel the snow around your ankles, and the cold wind rustling the trees above. The air is freezing, and with a horrible sinking feeling, you realize you aren’t wearing any clothes. Somewhere, there are distant whispers, but these are soon drowned out by the voice. You keep your eyes closed. You don’t want to look._

_“Go away.” you whisper, hands clenched into useless fists. The voice chuckles._

_“You know you don’t want that to happen.”_

_Your eyes are forced open. Peter is standing in front of you, hands splayed before him in a gesture of apology._

_“I just thought you’d be happy to see me.”_

_Tears start burning the corners of your eyes before you can stop them. All you want to do is run forward into his arms, hold him, be held, feel safe. Just the sight of him smiling makes you cry._ ‘It isn’t Peter,’ _you remind yourself,_ ‘it’s some sick copy. It’s pretend.’

_“I know I’m not who you want me to be,” he smiles earnestly, “but I can be. I won’t reject your love. I want you.”_

_You look away, unable to stomach his face. “You aren’t him.”_

_“But I will be,” he purrs, stepping closer to you. His hand slowly raises to your cheek, stroking the side of your face. Your stomach roils._

_“All I want is for you to help me. Accept me. Let me in, let me love you as he should, and you will have more than you ever could have dreamed of. It’s happened before.” A cold wind hisses through your bones, and the whispers behind the trees increase in volume. You can’t quite make them out._

_“Who are you to say he doesn’t love me?”_

_Anger tightens his features, but they smooth themselves out quickly. “You heard his voice over the phone. You heard him run away. It’s not that he can’t love you, he doesn’t love you. And without me, he never will.”_

_You look back up, into his eyes. The sickening glimmer is there, but they’re still so dark. So beautiful, like Peter’s. You bite your lip. Maybe, just maybe…_

_Then the smell hits your nose. Roadkill. Rotted worse than before. It hits you so hard and strong that you stumble back, tripping over your feet and knocking you into the snow with a hard whump. He stands over you, looming, making you feel small and helpless. He leans down slowly, tantalizingly, until his face is inches from yours. The stench is unbearable._

_“Think about it.”_

_He kisses your forehead gently as the whispers in the forest reach a crescendo, and then_

~*~

Your eyes snap open, face drenched in cold sweat. It’s morning. Sitting up shakily in bed, you look at your phone, and with a sigh realize that it’s almost time for you to leave for school.

The whole time you’re getting ready, you swear you can still hear the whispers.

~*~

The whole morning, you’re cagey and keep looking over your shoulder. You see the same people who were at the party acting completely normal. The memory of their vacant smiles makes your stomach turn. And all throughout, no sign of Peter.

You spend your lunch period in a bathroom stall, turning your phone over in your hands, praying that no one you know comes in. The half hour passes all too quickly, and soon it’s time for third period. English. With Bridget and Peter.

You don’t think the halls have ever been so long as you trudge towards Mr Davis’ class.

Past the door, you see Bridget in her seat up front, texting on her phone, looking disgustingly normal. And a few seats back, you glimpse an exhausted-looking Peter hunched in his seat.

You hurry to your desk, eyes cast down, before you can make eye contact with either of them.

The class drags on, Davis’ lecture distant and vague, as if he’s underwater. Your leg taps incessantly under your chair, not stopping despite the annoyed looks from your classmates. It feels like you’re a boiling kettle, about to explode or collapse in on yourself. You can’t stand it. 

Just as soon as it starts, class is over, and you quickly sling your bag over your shoulder and make for the exit. Eyes at the floor. Don’t look at anyone. 

You make it ten steps out the door before you feel Peter’s hand on your shoulder.

“We need to talk,” he murmurs softly, “meet me under the bleachers out on the soccer field in ten minutes.”

By the time you look over your shoulder, he’s already disappeared into the crowd of chattering high schoolers.

Making a beeline back to the bathroom, you splash some cold water on your pale face. It takes you a second to realize your hands are shaking. Your reflection in the mirror stares back at you steadily, dark circles under your eyes and the definite look of someone who hasn’t slept well for several days. You take a few deep breaths, trying to calm yourself down, but the air you suck in barely makes it into your lungs. It feels like your

(tongue is getting bigger)

body won’t accept oxygen. Closing your eyes, you breathe for a few more minutes before pushing off the counter and starting for the soccer field.

Peter is sitting on the ground when you get there, half-hidden by the shadows under the bleachers. You join him without a word, curling your knees up to your chest as you sit beside him. The two of you are silent for a few minutes. He talks first.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you at the funeral.”

You shake your head. “It’s okay. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“Are you…” he swallows dryly. “having weird dreams too?”

You look at him out of the corner of your eye. He’s staring fixedly at the ground. “... yeah.”

“I guess anyone would,” he continues, “after something like that.” Pause. “I keep thinking she’s in the treehouse. I’m hearing that click she does.”

The dappled sunlight streaming through the bleachers stains an orange glow on the back of your eyelids as you close them. Another deep breath. “I’m so sorry, Peter.”

He’s quiet for a second. And then, in the smallest voice possible, he asks,

“Can you hold my hand again?”

Your face heats up, and you wordlessly reach over to gently take his hand. It’s cold. He sighs softly.

“When… I was 15, I slept in the same room as Charlie.” He almost chokes on her name. “My mom and I were fighting a lot then. Over, like… the stupidest shit. I guess I made her more mad than I thought. Anyway, this one night…” his voice falters. You give his hand a gentle squeeze. He takes a couple more breaths. “Um… we were asleep. It was the middle of the night, and… and I woke up to this weird scratching sound. And this horrible, like… _chemical_ smell.” 

You look at him. His eyes are far away, lost in the memory.

“My- my mom was standing next to my bed, holding a fucking match. And it was lit.” He swallows again. You remember your inability to breathe in earlier, and move closer to him. “I screamed, as loud as I fucking could, trying to… to wake up Charlie. And Dad. Th-that seemed to wake up Mom too, and she put it out and started crying.” You can tell he’s starting to slip, but he’s determined to get his words out. “She had… had covered me and Charlie in her paint thinner. Like, for her art. She said she was fucking _sleepwalking_.” He spits the word venomously. 

Your blood runs cold, remembering his words over the phone call. His shoulders are shaking, tears threatening to spill over his lashes. 

“And like, you don’t move past that. Dad stopped her, but- but she was going to… she was…” He gasps. “She was gonna kill me and Charlie and now _I’ve killed Charlie_ and there’s nothing stopping her from… from…”

Peter starts to cry then, in small, withheld sobs. You wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him into an embrace, letting him cry into your shirt, shushing him gently and rubbing his back. Your mind is grappling to make sense of his words. You want to defend his mom, but to try to burn your own son alive…

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” You murmur into his dark hair. He tries to catch his breath and pulls back slowly, his eyes red. The afternoon light shines amber in his gaze, and you gently brush his tears away with your thumb.

“L-Last night, on the phone…” he murmurs, punctuated by soft hiccups, “the way you talked to me, sounded like her when she tries to be sweet. To act like a good mom. But she _isn’t_. I know she’s lying when she talks to me like that, and- and she hates me now…” His features soften as he gazes at you, fingers tightening on the fabric of your sleeves.

“But- you weren’t- you sounded so _genuine_. I’m not used to that… someone who says that stuff and means it.”

You give him a sympathetic smile, cupping his cheek gently. “I do mean it. I’m sure your mom does too.”

He nods, but you can tell by the look in his eyes that he doesn’t agree with the latter statement. You choose your words carefully.

“I just don’t want you to be alone. I… I want to keep you safe.” A flash of the smile that he had in your dreams crosses your mind, and you shake the image away. “I want to give you what you need. Even if that means you never want me to talk to you again.”

A cloud passes over the sun, and the warmth and light disappear. He tenses against the sudden chill of the passing shadow. You shiver too, arms tightening around him. Despite the drop in temperature, you can feel your heart beating, face warming up as you brush a lock of hair from his face.

The chill lessens even more when a sight brighter than any sunbeam makes your heart stop. 

Peter _smiles_.

“I need this. I think… it’s all I’ve ever needed.”

You return his smile, leaning forward and placing a gentle kiss to his forehead. The two of you stay like that for several minutes, his face pressed against the hollow of your neck, you pressing your lips along his hairline and holding him tight. The sun emerges out from under the clouds, washing the small space with warm yellow light.

He murmurs your name softly. “Can we stay like this for a little while longer?”

You smile a hidden smile against his hair, rubbing his back.

“We can stay here as long as you want.”

~*~

The two of you stay hidden under the bleachers until long after school has ended, and the sun is beginning to set. He tells you stories about Charlie when she was younger, and even laughs a few times. You don’t let go of him once, and he’s happy to be held, going from clinging to you like a life preserver to leaning into you and relaxing. When he looks at the time, he sighs, his face going slack.

“We should get going.” 

You stand up, stretching out the pins and needles in your legs. “Let me give you a ride.”

He smiles again, and you feel warmed by its brilliance. “Okay.”

Your truck is the only one left in the student lot, silent and patient. You help him haul his bike into the cab and get settled behind the driver’s seat. He eyes the car warily and then slides in the passenger seat. You put your hand over his.

“You alright?”

He nods, letting out a long breath. “I think so. It helps that you don’t have a backseat.”

As you drive, you can see Peter getting more and more tense the closer you get to his house. The vacancy starts returning to his eyes. Keeping your own on the road, you interrupt the silence again. “Do you need to come home with me? My parents are AWOL, you can camp out there if you need to.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t wanna leave them alone. Especially Dad.”

As you make the turn onto his street, he breathes in deeply. And then asks you a question completely unfitting to the situation.

“Does, uh… does this mean we’re dating now or something?”

You laugh softly, watching his shoulders ease at the sound. “Do you want it to?”

“I don’t mind.” He says softly. 

You turn into his driveway, idling the engine, and turn to face him. With a rush of excitement, you realize he’s _blushing_. Forgetting the dreams, the sadness, the fear, the world outside of the truck, you gently cup his chin and pull him in for a kiss. 

A few moments later, you part, and the moment is warm and safe and perfect. His eyes are dark and clear under thick lashes, unmarred by cloudiness or the glimmer from your dream. The realization that this Peter is real, and _yours_ , sends the words tumbling out clumsily before you can stop them.

“I love you, Peter.”

He blinks a couple times, obviously caught off guard. And then with a shyness that surprises you, he smiles and murmurs your name softly.

“I… love you too.”

You stay close for one moment longer, breaths mingling. Then he gives you another small kiss, an echo of the first, and turns to climb out of the truck. You watch him pull his bike out of the cab of the truck, face the house, hesitate for several long seconds, and make his way up the driveway. You linger until he gets to the front door. He turns, gives you a wave, and disappears into the house.

You drive home slowly, taking your time, savoring the last of the afternoon sunlight and the ghost of Peter’s lips. A small voice in your head tries to argue that what you did was wrong, that you shouldn’t have complicated his feelings while so many other things were happening, or maybe you were taking advantage of someone who was grieving and using it for your own gain…

But you don’t feel that way. For the first time since you’ve met him, you feel as clean and pure as the snow in your dreams.

You’re so distracted that you never even notice the blue car tailing you to your house, easing past your driveway and continuing to the Catholic high school down the street. Or the blazing, furious eyes of Annie Graham behind the wheel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God dammit Annie


	6. Altercation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I keep picturing non-Peter Paimon as Jonathan Groff every time I write him and it's really fucking with my brain. Also, this chapter is stupid long. Enjoy!

When you get out of your truck, it takes you a second to realize the lights in the house are on.  _ ‘Huh. Guess they’re home for once.’ _ You make a mental note not to ask too many questions about where your parents have been- you’ve learned not to pry into their lives too much.

“I’m home!” You yell into the expectant foyer, scraping the mud off of your shoes beside the door. 

“Come on in honey, we’re in the kitchen!”

Letting your backpack slump from your shoulder and hit the floor, you walk into the kitchen. Your mom is bustling away at the counter, and a familiar brunette is sitting at the table with a wide smile. She exclaims your name warmly, standing up and opening her arms for a hug. You embrace her with a smile, enjoying the familiarity.

“Hi, Aunt Joan.”

Joan wasn’t really your aunt- she was very close friends with your mother and had been for your whole life. They volunteered a lot at the local church together, so she’d become kind of like a second mother figure to you as you’d grown.

“Look at you! You need to get some meat on your bones. And have you been sleeping?” She pinches your cheek, making you twist up your face teasingly and turn away.

“I’m fine. Finals are coming up.” You comment quickly as you both sit down at the table. Your mom returns, with three steaming mugs of tea. You take an eager sip- you love the tea that Joan brings each week.

“Sorry we’ve been gone so much,” you mom comments with a passive wave of her hand, “there’s been so much volunteer work lately. I need to be buying you more groceries.” She sips her tea idly, looking over at Joan.

“So,” Joan continues for her, “how is school? Studying okay? Any boys?”

You smile into your mug, amused by the sudden barrage of questions. “My grades are okay. And, yeah, um… I’m talking to this one guy…” Your cheeks turn pink as you look away. Joan claps her hands excitedly.

“Oh, I just knew it! Someone we know?”

Your mother, however, looks a little more worried.

“Oh, honey, I was only gone for a few days and you turn around and get a boyfriend behind my back?” Her tone is somewhat joking, but you can tell she’s concerned. You shake your head, gulping more of your tea.

“It’s not like that, mom. I only see him at school. And, um…”

You stammer nervously, cheeks hot.

“... it’s Peter Graham.”

You expect blank stares, but Joan and your mom both erupt in enormous grins. Joan even puts her hand over yours. “Oh, congratulations sweetie! The Grahams are such a good family. I was good friends with his grandmother, Leigh, you know. If he’s at all like her, he’s such a smart boy.”

You blink a couple times, completely blown away by their reactions. You didn’t know they even knew the Graham family, much less approved of Peter. But they’re acting like you’ve just announced your acceptance to Harvard.

You drain the rest of your tea, spitting the black herb dregs back into your cup. “W-well, we’re technically dating as of a couple hours ago, so… yay?”

“That’s just so wonderful, sweetie,” your mom coos. “You should invite him over for dinner sometime! Your father and I would love to meet him.”

“Oh, where is dad?”

Your mom shrugs. “Said he was going out with some fishing buddies, you know him and his guys’ nights. Which reminds me,” she looks over at Joan, “don’t you have a meeting at church tonight?”

“Oh, is it that late already?” Joan glances at her watch, standing up abruptly and making for the door. “I swear, I’d lose my head if it weren’t screwed on tight. I’ll see you both later!”

As she makes her way out the door, your mom starts clearing up the mugs. “Well, I approve of that Graham boy, but just make sure you’re being safe.”

“Ugh,  _ mom _ …” You roll your eyes, letting your forehead hit the table. “Just don’t make a big deal out of it.”

As your mom starts making dinner, you smile a secret smile.

~*~

_ “Wow. They like me that much, huh?” _

“Yep,” you comment offhandedly. Peter’s voice rings through your speakers, phone on your pillow while you paint your nails. “Especially Aunt Joan. Said she was friends with your grandma.”

_ “Weird. She never mentioned her.” _ He pauses.  _ “Then again, I wasn’t really allowed to talk to her that much. Mom said I would just bother her.” _

“Maybe it was some kind of weird secret past. Like, they were spies for the FBI or something. I bet your grandma had a gun.”

Peter laughs.  _ “She and mom would have killed each other.” _

You laugh, blowing on your nails to dry them faster. Suddenly you hear other voices, muffled but distinct, on the phone. Peter also goes silent as they come and go, the mood darkening.

“What was that?”

_ “Mom and Dad. I guess she just got home.”  _ He sighs. _ “She’s started going to the movies at night. Or at least that’s what she says she’s doing.” _ You can visualize him rolling his eyes. Trying to distract him, you change the subject.

“What are you doing after school tomorrow?”

_ “Ah, geez, I dunno. Why?” _

“I thought maybe we could go out somewhere. There’s that new froyo place that opened downtown. I can buy.”

You hear a smile on his lips.  _ “That sounds nice. As long as I’m back in time for dinner.” _

“Sure thing, kiddo.” You mimic his Dad’s voice and hear him laugh, then glance at your bedside clock. “It’s kinda late, I think I’m gonna get some sleep. Want me to give you a lift to school tomorrow?”

_ “Sounds like a plan, Mom.”  _ You both laugh, then his voice again, warm and sleepy.  _ “I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.” _

“I love you too. Goodnight.”

_ “Night, babe.” _

He hangs up, leaving you staring at the blank screen of your phone for a second. Reaching over and flipping off your bedside lamp, you push the thoughts aside and let your mind drift as you lay down.

Something inside you tugs painfully- you can’t place it, just a kind of bittersweet ache. You love Peter so much it hurts, but you also feel…  _ scared _ . There’s so much you feel like you have to protect him from. You try to push the thoughts aside, but they swirl around your mind like storm clouds. Eventually, you slip into unconsciousness.

~*~

_ An owl hoots somewhere in the distance. You wake up on your back, the snow almost past your head. It’s gotten deeper since you’d started having these dreams. You sit up and see a plush armchair, out of place in a snowy forest, and the robed figure sits back in it with his fingers splayed across the armrests. _

_ “So,” he begins, “you and the little apostate are in love.” _

_ You grimace, fury snaking up your spine and turning your face red. Gritting your teeth, you mutter, “Yes. You were wrong.” _

_ “I’ve been wrong before, how do you think I got here?” He sighs melodramatically, waving a hand at the forest. “Well, you know what they say about Hell freezing over.” _

_ You stand up as he laughs at his own joke, wanting to spit in his face. “So does that mean you’re done? There’s nothing else you could want with me now, right?” _

_ “Quite the opposite! I’m happy for you. Besides,” he muses, “this will likely be easier for me.” _

_ You blink, and in like clockwork, it’s Peter sitting before you with a smug smile. Your name drips off of his lips like honey, and you shiver. He’s harder to ignore this way. _

_ “Come closer.” _

_ You yelp as your legs begin to move on their own, and shuffle you several steps forward before pushing you onto your knees before him. He reaches down, running a hand through your hair.  _

_ “You think loving Peter Graham will make all of this better? As if your childish little crush will just make me go away? No, my love. You cannot stop this. So you might as well give in while you can.”  _

_ You feel yourself start to warm, and the sickeningly familiar feeling of sleek wetness begins to invade your bare thighs. Whimpering, you try to fight it, but Peter just beckons you forward with a single finger.  _

‘No, not Peter,’  _ you scream inside your head,  _ ‘it isn’t Peter!’

_ “Oh, but it is.” He murmurs, twisting his fist into your hair and pulling your head back with a jerk. His tongue slides up your exposed neck tantalizingly, making your head swim and your legs go weak. You want to resist, but the sheer sensation is mind-numbing. _

_ “Good,” he whispers, his free hand palming your breast. You lean into his touch, mouth open, and he takes this as a sign to move his hand down even further. _

_ The touch of his nimble fingers against your agonizingly throbbing clit makes you gasp, squirming, but the hand in your hair holds you fast. “So eager,” he whispers, expertly rubbing you in just the right spots until you’re a moaning mess. _

_ He shoves you onto the snow, soft and cool, and holds you by your shoulder as his fingers find your entrance and begin pumping in and out of you, slowly, making your back arch. “That’s it. Good girl.” They curl, making your legs tense, and his fingertips press hard against your g-spot. _

_ “Peter,” you moan, mind slack, muscles aching from resisting. You picture the kiss, his smile, the sunlight playing over his hair with its warm glow, his eyes… _

_ With a sudden cry and a white-hot flash of sensation, your muscles release as you cum, hard, on Peter’s fingers. “Ah-” he smiles, fingers slick with your cum as he retracts them. You gasp for air as your ecstasy ebbs, gazing up at him. _

_ The glimmer in his eyes is shining brighter than ever. _

~*~

The dream is hard to forget as you steer the truck towards the Graham house. The winter sun, weak but determined, rises over the tops of the trees as you ease into their driveway. You rub your dry eyes- you hadn’t been able to sleep a wink for the rest of the night. 

You text Peter that you’re outside, and then tuck your phone into your pocket while looking out the window. The landscape outside the house really is beautiful- the bare limbs of the trees frame the shafts of sunlight, glimmering over the sloping hills. It’s then that you spot another lone figure amongst the trees.  _ ‘Man,’ _ , you wonder,  _ ‘Peter’s Dad is up awfully early.’ _

And then you realize that the figure is completely still. Just standing there, arms hanging limply at its side.

It’s facing you.

You squint, trying to make out its face-

The sound of the door opening and Peter saying your name makes you jump, whacking your knees against the steering column. You hiss with pain, eyes squeezed shut.

“Fuck, sorry.”

You look back up.The figure is gone.

“Uh… you okay?”

Looking over at Peter, you’re shocked by his appearance. He’s pale and exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes, and a slight shake to his hands. Your brows furrow with worry as you put your hand over his. “Jesus, you look like hell. I should be asking you that.”

He laughs weakly, pulling on his seatbelt. You notice him tug it a couple extra times to make sure it’s secure.

“I didn’t sleep very well. Doesn’t look like you did, either.”

You shrug, gunning the motor and backing out of the driveway. “My dreams haven’t gotten any better.”

“When are you gonna tell me about these mysterious nightmares of yours?”

You look at him out of the corner of your eye- a haggard echo of the confidant, alluring Peter from your dream- and suppress a shudder.

“I’ll tell you about them later today, okay?”

You both pass the rest of the drive making idle small talk, and you feel the tension in your shoulders slowly ebbing. His presence always helps. He gets quiet for a moment, and then startles you when he puts his hand between your shoulder blades.

“I swear, I’d be going crazy right now if I didn’t have you.”

Idling at a stop light, you turn to look at him. A small smile ghosts his lips as he rubs your back. You return the smile.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I can’t talk to, like,  _ anyone _ else at school. I barely have since… that night.” He swallows dryly. “And my parents are like a time bomb, especially Mom. I don’t want to be around when she snaps.” He sighs, his hand curling into a fist.

The light turns green. You look back at the road.

“You know you can always come to my place…”

“I can’t. She’s blaming me for so much of this. If I run off to my girlfriend’s house she’ll think I’m not taking anything seriously.”

Despite the seriousness, you can’t help but feel your heart skip a beat when he calls you his girlfriend. You steer into the school parking lot, find your spot, and turn the engine off.

“Look, Peter…”

When you turn to him, you’re surprised to see his eyes wet with tears. Your heart wrenches and you pull him close to you on instinct, hugging him tightly. He lets out a shaky breath, trying to keep himself from crying. Stroking his hair slowly, you kiss the top of his head. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. Just breathe, baby.”

Eventually he catches his breath and sits back up, scrubbing at his eyes with his sleeve. “We should go in before we’re late,” he starts quickly, but you shush him with a kiss.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Pulling back with a slower, more genuine nod, he goes to open the door. “Of course.”

Your heartbeat starts to calm as the two of you get out of the truck, shouldering your bags, and then he kicks it back into top speed when he takes your hand.

When you raise your eyebrows, he just smiles slightly and squeezes your hand. “It’s what couples do, right?”

You return the smile. “Heh. I guess it is.”

Even after he kisses you goodbye and leaves for his class, your hand tingles with warmth.

~*~

The rest of the day passes without incident, and soon enough you’re walking back out to your truck, drained but happy to be free. Out of the corner of your eye, you recognize Bridget by her locker with Aaron. She turns and locks eyes with you at the same moment and- completely unexpectedly- flashes you a big smile and a wave. You grimace and stride past her.

“Psycho.”

Peter’s already waiting by your truck by the time you get there. You immediately sense that something is wrong- he looks guarded, cagy, and his eyes keep darting around the parking lot.

He practically knocks the wind out of you with a greeting hug.

“Jesus, babe, what happened?”

He’s trembling. Your stomach sinks.

“... did you have another panic attack?”

He nods, squeezing you tightly. “Brendan… wanted to smoke a joint. I-I got too high and… and…” You realize his eyes are swollen and bloodshot. You hug him tightly, shushing him. 

“It’s okay, you just couldn’t breathe. I know, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

You keep comforting him quietly until he gets his breath back, and he straightens up shakily. He swipes at his eyes. “God… you must think I’m a total freak.”

“Never.” You smile, looking over your shoulder. Other students are passing by, looking at you and whispering amongst themselves. The whispers set your teeth on edge. 

“Come on, let’s go.”

~*~

“So, are you gonna tell me about your dreams?”

The question startles you, the sweetness of frozen yogurt in your mouth suddenly curdling. The two of you are seated at a small outside table, bowls piled high with toppings that Peter’s just been pushing around with his spoon. His expression is dead serious. You swallow and put your spoon down.

“Only if you tell me about yours.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “God, I barely know where I’d start. A lot of them are about Charlie. Would you believe I thought I saw her standing in my room last night?” He stares at his bowl, as if it will give him answers. “But… some of them are about mom… saying she never wanted me. Again.”

His description chills you to the bone, and you shiver. You couldn’t imagine hearing that from a parent. He continues.

“Some aren’t as clear. Lots of screaming. And I see Charlie’s treehouse, but I know she isn’t in there. It’s scary.” He narrows his eyes. “And there’s this… weird light…”

You freeze, your mouth moving on its own.

“You mean the glimmer?”

His head shoots up, and suddenly it’s the night after Charlie died in the Grahams’ kitchen all over again. “You’ve seen it too?”

“Yeah,” you agree, urged on by the sudden revelation. “I keep dreaming I’m out in the woods. I see that glimmer, off in the trees. And there’s always this… guy…”

Suddenly you can’t meet Peter’s eyes anymore.

“... I don’t recognize him, but he talks to me like he knows me. And he, um… does other things.” You press your thighs together unconsciously. “... but the light, it’s always there. In his eyes.”

When you look back up at Peter, he looks completely floored.

“I can’t believe we’ve seen the same stuff. What do you think it means?”

You take another bite of your dessert, mind swimming with sudden uncomfortable images. You don’t know what to say. “I, um…”

The answer is suddenly clear, and comes out before you can stop it.

“I think it means that we need to stay together, no matter what happens.”

His expression is a combination of bemused and startled, but it quickly gives way to a warm smile. You can’t help but admire his dark eyes, and how they always put you at ease. He reaches across the table and murmurs your name quietly.

“Okay. I promise.”

The two of you stay for as long as you can, and when you finally have to leave, you linger for a little while on the way back to your truck. His hand is warm in yours, and makes the reminders of your dreams seem like a distant memory. Neither of you notice the eyes following you down the street from the windows, or the glimmer that disguises itself as an errant ray of sunlight.

~*~

“So… what’s the worst thing about eating a clock?” Peter asks, feet tucked up against the dashboard. You smirk a little.

“I don’t know, what?”

“It’s time consuming.”

You snort, giving his arm a light punch. “Oh, come on. That was fucking awful.”

The two of you had challenged each other to a worst joke competition- your idea- as you drove him home. You hurry to think of one as you turn onto his street. “Okay, okay. Why don’t dogs like space?”

“Why?”

You let the suspense for the punchline stretch as you pull into their driveway. “... they’re afraid of the vacuum.”

“Oh,  _ fuck _ you! That’s the worst one. You win.” He laughs, unbuckling his seatbelt. “I promise I think of a worse one later.”

“I’m sure you will.” You lean over and catch his lips with yours, smiling into the kiss. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, of course. I lo-”

He stops, blood draining from his face as he stares at the front door. His expression goes stone cold. You freeze.

“Peter? What is it?”

“Fuck. You have to leave.” He’s scrambling for his bag now, wrenching open the door furiously. You struggle for words, trying to stop him. 

“S-Slow down, what is-”

You turn to see what he’s looking at, and feel your blood run cold. Annie Graham is standing in the doorway to the house.

And she looks  _ furious _ .

As soon as your eyes meet, she narrows hers and starts stomping towards your truck. Adrenaline racing, you get out of the cab, deaf to Peter’s pleas for you to stay inside. He rushes around the hood to stand beside you as she crosses the lawn. 

“Peter,” she says coldly, “go inside.”

“Mom, wait-”

_ “Now.” _

He narrows his eyes, indignant, and then takes your hand. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it to both of us.”

Her eyes are blazing, scowl twisting her intense face. You passively realize you’ve never seen her smile. She steps forward and clumsily wrenches your hand out of Peter’s before stabbing an accusatory finger at your chest.

“Listen, you shameful  _ hussy _ , you will stay away from my son and from this house. You have imposed yourself on this family enough. I don’t want to see your face again, and I don’t want to see your damn  _ car _ again, and if you so much as drive past this property again, I will call the police. Do you understand me?”

The two of you stare at each other coldly. Your heart is pounding in your chest, fury and confusion boiling inside you. Peter weakly tries to object, but she shoots a withering gaze at him. “In. Side. Now.” She hisses. 

With that, she turns and marches back up to the house. Peter is left looking between the two of you helplessly. All he can manage is, “I’m sorry,” before he trails after her up to the house.

You clamber into your truck and slam the door, fists tight around the wheel, so blind with anger you can barely see straight. Annie shoots you one last hard look from the front door before shutting it, and the last sliver of patience you had goes with it. You tense up and let out a frustrated yell, slamming your hands on the steering wheel.

Blinking back angry tears, you gun the motor and spin out of the driveway, chewing on profanity and empty threats. Dozens of eyes follow your truck up the road, while your own stare straight ahead, trying to formulate a plan.

In that moment, you decide you’re going to get him out of that house, no matter what.

You made a promise, and you intend to keep it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that went to shit real fast.
> 
> Hope you liked my TLOU2 reference :)


	7. Exhiliration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! I'm not dead! Sorry for the hiatus, college classes started early this year. Hope y'all can forgive me.
> 
> Also, this chapter is stupid long... and like half of it is porn. You're welcome. *smooch*

The days drag on lethargically. Your parents spend more and more time volunteering at the church. Every once in a while, Aunt Joan will stop in and drop off her herbal tea or some cookies, but you spend most of your time alone in the dark house. You miss school. You dread sleep. You think you see the glimmering in other places now- around your room, in passing cars, through the light of the sunset.

Peter hasn’t texted you- through fear or something worse, you don’t know. At first you were angry, but your initial knee-jerk furious reaction has devolved into a constant, thrumming worry that feels like a vibrating inside of your skull. 

You’re feeling this vibration, curled up on your bed while the winter sunlight paints your walls, when your phone buzzes for the first time in days. 

You nearly injure yourself in your hurry to grab it from your nightstand, hoping- praying-

As soon as you see Peter’s contact info, relief washes over you in a wave so intense you nearly pass out. You answer the phone immediately. 

“Peter?? D-Don’t hang up, are you okay?!”

He’s quiet. The silence weighs on you like a ton of bricks. Your chest tightens.

“Peter, what-”

_ “H-Help me.” _

His voice is so small and scared, and you feel your blood run cold. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

_ “Come to school, please, I need you here. I don’t care if Mom and Dad find out, I-”  _ he whimpers, throat thick with fear and grief. It breaks your heart.  _ “Get me out of here and I’ll explain everything.” _

You dimly realize that you have no idea what day it is, and the knowledge that Peter is at school without you makes your stomach wrench. 

“Okay, I’m on my way. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll meet you outside, okay? Just… wait for me.”

He hangs up.

As soon as the call ends, you look up and take in your room. It’s the same warm cocoon that it’s always been, but for the first time, its stillness really sets in. The eerie silence presses to your ears with a tangible heaviness that sends shivers down your spine. The air is suddenly cold and pricks against your skin like needles.

The adrenaline from the strange phone call combined with the sudden closing in of the walls around you sends you sprinting out of the house before you can even grab a coat.

~*~

Peter is huddled outside the main entrance when you get there. As soon as you’re out of your truck, he strides hurriedly towards you with wide, frightened eyes. You jog forward to meet him, the warm relief of seeing him in person calming your nerves somewhat. This is okay. You can stay in control.

He crashes into your arms and begins to cry hysterically, in deep, heaving sobs that rattle his frame. Your relief subsides somewhat, and you feel the familiar tendrils of cold panic lick at your spine. You ground yourself against him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him close.

“Peter. Breathe. I’ve got you. You’re safe. Breathe.”

You repeat this mantra over and over, murmuring into his hair and gripping him tight. A sudden, absurd vision of him pulled away from you by some unseen force the moment you relax your grip flashes across your mind, and you shudder.

You aren’t sure how long the two of you stay like that, but eventually he takes deeper breaths and starts to calm down. You’re hit with a strong deja vu as he pulls back, eyes swollen and face blotchy. His appearance, now up close, makes the blood drain from your face. He’s thinner, paler, and his eyes don’t just look scared- they look  _ dead. _

The fear of losing him completely grips you so suddenly that you feel your own eyes well up with tears, and you pull him back into your arms with a choked gasp.

“What the hell happened to you?”

He hesitates, looking for his words.

“... Not here. We have to go somewhere else.”

“Why do we-”

“Just trust me, okay?!”

The panic in his voice makes you wince, and you nod. He follows you meekly back to your truck, head swiveling as he looks back and forth over his shoulders. You both climb in, and you adjust the rearview mirror while he buckles his seatbelt. The mirror catches a glimpse of

(charlie’s face)

the setting sun, making you flinch and your stomach lurch with unexpected disgust.

You blink a couple of times and look back into the mirror. Nothing to be seen there except for the parking lot behind you.

Peter’s weak voice snaps you out of your short-lived confusion.

“You aren’t going to take me home, are you?”

“... No.” You answer quietly, gunning the engine. “We’re going to my house.”

“Your parents won’t mind..?”

Your eyes are blank and unfeeling as you steer out of the school parking lot. “Doesn’t matter. I haven’t seen them in days.”

The drive is tense, lessened somewhat- but not entirely- by you removing one hand from the steering wheel and taking Peter’s. He holds onto your hand for dear life, his own cold and clammy. Neither of you talk or look at each other until you pull into your driveway fifteen minutes later.

He keeps looking around wildly as you get out of the truck- neither of your parents’ cars are present- and he reattaches his grip to your hand as soon as he can. The two of you walk inside, and you make sure to lock the front door behind you.

“My room is upstairs. I’ll make sure the house is clear.” You give his hand a squeeze and let go, turning to close the blinds. A moment passes, and you don’t hear the stairs creaking.

You look over your shoulder to see Peter, impossibly small and guarded, looking at you with wide eyes.

“S-Sorry, I can’t… be alone right now.”

You give him a small, sad smile, and gesture for him to follow you as you continue through the house. He sticks to you like a shadow as you check the locks, close the blinds, and make sure the house is clear of any other presence. 

No one else is there.

He follows you just as close as you go up to your room, and you guide him inside with a hand on his back before closing your door and making double-sure that it’s locked.

When you turn back around, he’s scanning your room with a look of utter surprise. You put a hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”

“It just… feels so warm. It’s like the opposite of my house.” Something in his tone is distant and wistful. “This place is what my good dreams were like. I wish I could have come here sooner.”

You sigh softly and press a gentle kiss to his temple, taking his hand and guiding him to sit beside you on your bed. Gently taking both his hands in yours, you look at him with a serious, levelled expression.

“Now… Tell me everything.”

~*~

“... and then she and Dad just went to bed, like nothing had happened.”

Your mind is reeling from the sheer horror of his recollection of the previous night’s events. A  _ seance _ ? You can’t believe what you’re hearing. After the last time you’d seen Annie, you couldn’t believe that she could get much more unhinged. Apparently, you’d been wrong.

“I don’t understand… is she just crazy?”

Peter’s hands are trembling as he pushes his sweaty hair from his face. “No. Not crazy. I couldn’t tell Dad, but… something happened to Mom. She was talking like Charlie.” He swallows the lump in his throat, tears threatening his vision. “And that… thing… whatever it was, it got into the house. It followed me to school.” 

You reach over and rub gentle circles against his back as he continues.

“I was gonna call Dad, but I knew he wouldn’t believe me… he’ll think I’m crazy. He thinks everyone is crazy except him.” Peter’s dark eyes meet yours, bloodshot and exhausted. He murmurs your name. “You’re the only one I can trust now.”

All at once, the familiar sense of deja vu assaults your senses. Sitting on a bed beside Peter, his hand in yours, your voices quiet and uncertain, takes you back to the night of the party. The dim light echoes the glow from under the closed door. You feel a sinking sense of responsibility for the entire situation, starting with Charlie’s death and contributing to the decline of his mother.

In an attempt to keep from drowning altogether, you lean forward and give him a soft, sweet kiss. He doesn’t move, but his eyes flutter closed and you feel his shoulders relax. 

Then he urges forward suddenly, capturing your lips eagerly. You make a muffled noise of surprise, hands gripping his shoulders to pull him back- much to his evident dismay. 

“Sweetheart, please. You’re in shock. I-I don’t want to take advantage of-”

“I don’t care,” he whispers, his words rushing out as if he’s afraid to hold them in. He kisses you again, and this time you don’t resist, the utter absurdity of the situation lost in the bliss of his lips against yours. 

Your skin tingles electric as he clumsily paws at your shirt, the awkward adolescent fumbling lost in his eagerness to get closer to you. Somehow you end up pushed back into your bed as his mouth moves from your lips to your ear and the crook of your neck and back again, breaths heavy, nearly frantic in his escape. In  _ you _ .

He pauses then, lips connected to yours by a thin stream of saliva, and in his dark broken eyes you see a flicker of warmth.

Of  _ love. _

“I’m-” he trips over his words, propping himself up so he can gaze down at you, “not gonna waste any more fucking time… I don’t want to be  _ scared _ anymore.” He pants unevenly, hair hanging over his eyes. 

You cradle his face gently with one hand. “We don’t have to do this. I don’t want to make you feel worse.”

“N-No, I  _ want _ to…” He seems frustrated by his lack of understanding. 

“I just need to forget. Help me-  _ make _ me forget.”

The vulnerability in Peter’s voice and eyes makes your heart wrench, and you cup the nape of his neck to pull him into an answering kiss. His breath stutters as he grips at the hem of your shirt, his hands fumbling over themselves. You push him back into a sitting position and peel the unneeded layer off.

His hands move slowly, through space, unsure of what to do or how to do it. You lean forward, gently taking his shirt and lifting it over his head. He obliges and stares at you, a million thoughts echoing behind his eyes.

“You alright? Should I stop?” You ask quietly.

He shakes his head. “No… you’re just- so pretty.”

The whoosh of excitement makes your cheeks flush, and you run a hand down his chest. “You are, too.”

Your hand continues its course, fingers undulating over the rises and falls of his abdomen. His breath hitches when you reach his jeans, fingers trailing delicately up his thigh. “That’s-” he gasps, squirming as you start to palm his growing erection through the fabric. “O-oh... my god…”

You shush him gently, blankets rustling as you move closer. “I’ve got you.”

You give him a few more seconds of stimulation, heart pounding as you watch him squirm in place. When you remove your hand he whines, hips stuttering as they chase the absent sensation. His brows furrow with confusion.

Then go slack with surprise as you push him gently onto his back, his shoulders sinking into the soft duvet, and start to unbutton his jeans. 

He keeps his gaze on you, lips parted and cheeks red, as you hook your thumbs in the waistband and pull them off, along with his boxers, in one quick motion. 

“Oh,” you breathe softly, pulse quickening as you take him in. He’s propped himself up on his elbows, dark eyes lidded, and you let your eyes run down the length of his slender torso, the slight dip to his hips, and finally-

His hardening cock, casting a shadow as it rests against his thigh.

It’s Peter,  _ all of him, _ and it’s not like any of your dreams. He’s human and safe and wanting, his eyes devoid of the evil glimmer that’s made you scream in your sleep so many times. As you slide your palm up the side of his thigh, his warmth is natural. His breaths, slightly labored but still even, are soft and fill up the room.

And the way they get faster when you finally start to stroke his shaft with your fingers makes you press your thighs together.

“Is this,” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Yeah, it’s- it’s amazing…” He shivers, the resulting throb making him harder in your hand. “Don’t stop. Please…”

Happy to oblige, you continue the movement of your fingers, intoxicated by his reactions to your touch. You’ve always seen him as someone you need to protect, but for the first time, he’s trusting you enough to let you have a level of  _ power _ over him. Unlike his dream counterpart, he’s putty in your hands.

You move your hand back, much to his audible dismay, but quickly shut him up when you drag a teasing tongue up his thigh. His eyes snap fully open and he sits up, hand on your head. 

“Wh-whoa, are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you respond, settling back on your knees. “Of course. Unless you don’t… want me to?”

“No, no. I do, it’s just…” His face is bright red now. “Feels kind of unfair if only one of us is wearing clothes, right?”

Now it’s your turn to stammer and blush, looking down at yourself- bra and pajama shorts still covering the merchandise. You smile slightly and stand up, steadying yourself with a shaky hand.

“Okay.”

Peter leans back, hair mussed and smirking slightly, as you slip out of your shorts. Leaving you in just panties and a bra. In front of the guy you’ve been in love with for years.

“Close your eyes.” You say softly.

You can tell that he wants to protest, but instead he just smiles wider and closes them. Heart hammering in your chest, you hook your fingers in the band of your panties and slide them to the floor, the feeling of being exposed surprising, but not unwelcoming. After you’ve unhooked your bra and tossed it aside, you sit on the bed beside Peter.

“Okay, you can… open them.”

His eyes flutter open, and you recognize him giving you the same long, slow glances you were giving him earlier. Drinking every inch of you with his eyes. Satisfactorily, you see his cock twitch out of the corner of your eye. “Fuck,” he whispers your name softly.

Then he leans in and kisses your neck, breath hot and eager, as he starts palming one of your breasts with a free hand. Just like that the two of you are lost in each other, hands touching everywhere that they can reach, your senses full of the gentle scent and the milky-sweet taste of his skin.

You’re pushed back onto your duvet, mirroring the kiss that started all of this, and his fingers are between your legs before you can say anything. You tense up, expecting the sliding revulsion, but instead it’s pleasure that makes your pulse spike as his fingertips start circling your slick clit. 

“That okay?” He asks, tripping over his words, and you nod eagerly. “Okay,” he murmurs in response, biting his lip as he slides a digit inside you. There’s no resistance on your part- you’re soaked- and his lips part in an eager smile as you squirm and squeeze your eyes shut.

“Peter,” you urge as a second finger enters you, pumping in a steady rhythm that leaves you whimpering. “Fuck, that’s… you’re…”

“Yeah,” he responds, out of breath, eyes cloudy and dark with desire. Still his eyes. “That’s it. Tell me.”

You can feel his fingertips brush up against a soft, sensitive spot inside you, the resulting spark of sensation making your hips stutter. “More,” you gasp softly, hands gripping his biceps and squeezing.

“I-I want to…” he murmurs, and you feel his dick brush softly against your inner thigh. You open your eyes, and his face is so close to yours, closer than anyone else’s has ever been. The room is silent except for the sound of your mingling breaths, and the sunlight from your window is haloing his messy black hair.

He’s beautiful.

“Peter, you’re, um… I’ve never…” you trail off, swallowing dryly. His smile is warm, understanding, and a little shy.

“It’s okay, neither have I.” He kisses your forehead. “I want it to be you. I feel safe here.”

“... okay.” You take a deep breath, reaching down to spread your lips. He holds himself steady with one hand and, resting his forehead against yours, slides inside of you with a slow roll of his hips.

You both groan, Peter’s shoulders tensing up as he lets his head hang, lips parted. There’s no pain, not like in your dreams. Just the delicious feeling of being  _ full _ and  _ wanted. _

Your name drips from his lips like honey as he starts a slow pace, eyes open and watching, taking in every reaction and movement from you. Locking your arms around his neck, you try to match his pace with your hips, every synapse in your brain going haywire. A low grunt comes from Peter as he pushes in further, parting you and hitting places you didn’t even know you  _ had. _

“God, yes-” you gasp, cut off by his lips crashing into yours. You’re lost in him, every sense overwhelmed, desperate to take in so much more until the lines between you are blurred. His head pulls back and he moans your name again, hips rolling in tight circles, the tip of his cock nudging your g-spot perfectly.

“Love- I love you- fuck!” He throws his head back, muscles tensing as he grinds against you at a dizzying pace. Your hand gropes blindly up his arm and to his back, nails gaining purchase in his skin.

You wrap your legs around his hips to pull him in deeper. Never let him go. “I love you too,” You gasp, sensation thrumming through you. The slapping sounds between your legs get louder as his eyes focus on you, concerned creases between his brows.

“I’m gonna cum,” his words come out in a murmured rush, making your face heat up that much more. “I- I need you to… please…”

You nod. “Inside,” you manage, “it’s okay.” His eyes flit over to the package of pills on your bedside table and he nods, teeth gritting, concentrated.

Suddenly there’s blood rushing to your head, a stutter of your name flooding from his lips. You can feel your breaths trip over themselves, body tensing, sensation redirected to your center as it releases all at once in a dizzying wave of bliss.

“ _ Peter- _ ” you cry out, as he buries his face in the shelter of your neck, your name pouring from his lips, mirroring the sudden flood of warmth flowing deep inside your core.

The moment stretches to a breaking point, too perfect to be captured. Safe. Warm. Together.

He pulls out of you slowly and collapses into the eternally soft blankets, lips brushing your bare shoulder in a loving whisper.

It takes you a couple minutes of deep breaths to realize the sun is starting to set. Peter’s skin, sweat-slick against yours, has lost its clammy chill. In fact, you realize you’re warmer than you’ve been in a long time.

“Thank you.” He says quietly, curling up to rest his head on your chest. You play with his hair, gazing up at the ceiling. 

All the feelings of disgust, deeply-buried among fear and pain, start to melt away against the sensation of his deep breaths. At that moment, you two are the only people in the universe.

A few minutes pass, and he sits up slowly, blankets sliding from his bare skin. Your eyes slide down the curve of his spine, the slopes of his shoulders, and you feel your heart tug with absolute helpless infatuation.

You sit up, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “What are we going to do?”

He sighs, staring down at his hands, eyes distant. 

“I don’t want to go back to that house. I can’t… be around either of them.”

You hesitate, gnawing on your lip, and weigh your options. You don’t want to confront an unhinged Annie Graham. But at the same time, you don’t want to leave Peter alone with her for one more night. It seems like whatever miniscule amount of control Steve had is long gone, and you can relate to the desire to draw in and protect oneself against that kind of fear. 

You’ve been fighting the same urge yourself since the moment you stepped into the house.

As if in response to your fear, the air in the room…  _ flexes _ . You don’t know how to describe the sensation. It’s like a cold fist wraps its fingers

(long, slender fingers)

around your heart and  _ squeezes _ . Peter flinches next to you as you gasp, wincing at the invasive feeling. A beat of silence. You both look at each other.

“Did you feel that?” He asks, a tremor in his voice.

You nod. “Y-Yeah. Like something moved.”

He shudders, clambering out of your bed quickly and pulling his clothes on. You do the same, the delicious warmth from before suddenly chilling to a cold, uncomfortable invasion between your thighs. You grimace and pull your shorts up to stem the flow, reminded of the dream

(Peter)

and shuddering with revulsion.

The air in your room adopts that same, unnameable chill from before. Goosebumps prick at the skin on your upper arms. 

By the time you’re dressed, Peter is already at the window, scanning the street outside. The warmth and safety is gone, and you feel his anxiety coming off of him in waves. 

“Come on.”

You open your door, listening closely for any movement or presence in the house. It’s just as silent as it was before. The silent rushing of feet across carpet betrays your escape as you guide Peter to the front door quickly, head swiveling back and forth over your shoulders. When he opens the door to walk outside, you hear a distinct ‘click’ from the hallway behind you.

Spinning around to look at the darkened hallway, you see nothing. 

Peter’s voice echoes inside your head, a conversation from an eternity ago.  _ “Charlie does this thing when she needs to, like, stim. She clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth.” _

A low, scared noise comes from your lips and you hurry out the door, slamming it behind you. Peter’s already in the truck, pale and sweaty. You clamber into the driver’s side, hands clammy, and grip the steering wheel like a life raft.

“What the hell was that?” You pant, unable to take your eyes from the front door. Did you really hear Charlie? Are you going crazy?

“I think that’s… the thing that was trying to find me at the school…” Peter’s voice shakes, and he sounds on the verge of tears again. His hand gropes blindly for yours, which you grab and hold tightly. “The thing that mom summoned with the fucking seance.” 

You meet his gaze, mind racing. “I’m sorry, I… I thought my house would be safe.”

“It’s okay… I’m just glad we’re here. This is definitely safe.” A humorless, wry smile crosses his lips. “Of course the only place I feel safe is a fucking car.” 

You gun the motor and back out of your driveway without giving yourself time to think twice, just eager to get away from the house. Several minutes pass as you just drive, Peter’s heavy breaths beginning to calm in the passenger seat, and finally you break the silence.

“We have to come up with a plan.”

He swallows audibly, knee bouncing up and down. “I don’t know… it’s like that thing is everywhere. I don’t know what it is… maybe mom summoned it just to kill me... “ You can tell he’s starting to spiral, and you snap him out of it by putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Peter. Can you handle one more night in the house?”

Out of the corner of your eye you watch him blink a couple of times, considering it. “I mean… I can try, I guess. But my parents are…”

“I’m not saying it will be permanent,” you interject, “but if this thing- whatever it is- is actually trying to hunt you down, it will go anywhere that you’re  _ supposed _ to be. So if I can get you out of here for a little while, then maybe…”

His shocked expression subsides slightly at your words. “You’re saying we run away?”

“I’m saying I get you out of harm’s way for as long as I need to.” You gnaw on your lower lip, thoughts racing to formulate a plan. “The adults aren’t going to help us. My parents aren’t even aware I exist, and it’s not like aunt Joan cares enough to-”

“Wait, who?”

You slow to a crawl just shy of a stoplight and glance at Peter. His eyes are wide. 

“My aunt Joan, she’s like… a friend of my Mom’s.”

His lips move but no sound comes out.

“What’s the matter?”

His expression hints that he’s on the verge of breaking. He whimpers, looking for his words.

“My… My mom said she was taught how to do the seance… by her friend Joan.”

Something disconnects, and your mind spins. Grappling for reason, you try to deny it, shaking your head vigorously. “N-No, that’s… it’s someone else, right? It has to be…” Your hands white-knuckle the steering wheel. 

“I don’t know… what if it  _ is _ your aunt? Do your parents know about this?”

“I… I don’t even fucking know where my parents  _ are! _ They’ve been fucking off for like a week now, and I haven’t heard from  _ you,  _ and- and now my aunt Joan might be fucking responsible for this... thing that’s trying to hurt you!”

The tears come before you can stop them, the road blurring in a veil of grief. You, who has held things together as well as you can, whose control of your emotions and ability to comfort Peter through everything, finally breaking down in the driver’s side of your shitty pickup truck. 

Peter reaches over and guides the steering wheel to the right, pulling the truck off the road before you crash into something. Your foot slams on the brakes, upper body jerking forward with the force of the halt.

_ “What the fuck is happening, Peter?!” _

You slam your hands against the steering column, body shaking as it’s wracked with sobs. You feel his hand on your back and just let yourself cry, all the confusion and fear and grief pouring out of you after weeks of bottling it up.

Peter shushes you gently, hand on the small of your back. His words sound uncertain, but comforting.

“Even if it is the same person, I don’t… blame you. I don’t think this is your fault. Otherwise you might have known, but... “ His lips brush your temple softly as you take deep, shaky breaths, and wipe at your hot eyes furiously.

“I wanted things to be normal!” You snap, furious energy pouring out of you. “I wanted us to go on dates, a-and hold hands at school, and when we kissed at that stupid fucking party I thought everything was finally gonna be right!” Your head is pounding. “Fuck, I couldn’t even enjoy sex with you for the first time because that  _ thing _ won’t ever leave us alone!”

You trail off and let yourself cry, unable to translate your thoughts.

His expression is soft and kind when you’re able to focus on it again. You sniffle. 

“I-I’m sorry, I just couldn’t…”

“Don’t be sorry. We made a promise. We protect each other. It isn’t one-sided.” He murmurs, the fear in his eyes still present, but less so. “Look… we can make this work. Once I get through tonight, I can pack some things and meet you after school tomorrow.”

You brush away a few more errant tears, eyebrows raised. “You actually want to do this?”

“With you, yes.” He nods, his face so serious it almost wants to make you laugh. You settle instead on a small smile. 

“Dating me for a week and you already want to run away with me, huh?”

He returns your smile, fingers stroking your hair slowly. “You’re the only one who actually cares about how I’m feeling. Besides… it helps that you can drive a manual.”

You snort, leaning over to shut him up with a kiss. The hour prior to your forced escape comes flooding back suddenly, making your face hot and your stomach churn, as you pull back. Peter’s eyes flutter open slowly, and he notices your blush.

He grins playfully. “I don’t know why, but you’re hot after you’ve been crying.”

You roll his eyes and shove him off with an aggravated growl, starting the truck before he can say another word.

~*~

A block away from his house, you stall the engine and look sidelong at the dark-haired boy. The tension in his shoulders has come back, and his eyes are wide and cagey- just like they were at school.

To calm him down, you give him a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Remember, only pack your essentials. And call me if you need me, okay? You can sneak them into my truck once you get to school.”

He takes a long, deep breath and nods, looking over at you. “Okay. Sorry, I’m just… it’s all happening really fast.”

“Yeah,” you agree, rubbing his shoulder, “but it’s nothing we can’t handle together.”

The gratitude in his eyes makes them shine, and your name rolls off of his lips like music. “I love you so much. Like, seriously. I don’t fucking know where I’d be without you.”

You’re tempted to remind him that the majority of this is your fault, but bite it back and instead just smile warmly. “I love you too. Things will be okay.”

The two of you share one last, lingering kiss, before he slings his bag over his shoulder and hops out. You watch him walk down the street until he turns onto his, and then he’s out of sight.

As you turn your truck around to drive back to your house, you try to calm the incessant hammering of your heartbeat. Whatever is waiting for you back at your house, you can tough it out for one more night. 

Nothing can go wrong in just one night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And nothing went wrong ever again ever


	8. Cessation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit you guys, HERE IT IS. The long-awaited conclusion. Godspeed, reader.

_“My love. It’s time to wake up.”_

_You sit up and blink a couple of times, looking around in confusion. You’re in the forest again, beside the bright, glimmering bonfire. Somewhere in the distance, a dog is barking. You look down at your hand- a trail of ants are marching across it. Shaking them off with a wave of disgust, you struggle to your feet._

_The bonfire is enormous, stretching almost a dozen feet into the night sky. Your gaze follows the drifting sparks, hypnotized, until you realize that there’s a shadow on the other side of the flames._

_Smoke. Rotting meat._

_“Hello, my dear.” Peter comes strolling around the bonfire with his hands casually in his pockets. Fear clutches at your insides in an icy grasp. He chuckles when your eyes widen._

_“I understand you must not be very happy to be here. I assure you, this will be your last image of me outside of the waking world. It has all come to this, my sweet. Aren’t you thrilled?”_

_“What are you talking about?” You ask accusingly. The trees rustle in response._

_His ghastly face illuminated by the flames, the false Peter smiles warmly. You assume he’s trying to look at you like a lover, but his expression reminds you more of a predator about to eat its prey. “The last night before my summons, of course.” His eyes glitter cruelly. “There is no need to convince you anymore. You will accept me.”_

_Your eyes slam shut as you clench your fists, hoping the pain wakes you up. There’s the familiar sensation of your fingernails digging into your palms, but it’s no use. You’re trapped here until he’s done with you._

_“Please,” you finally submit, “I don’t care what you want from me. Just don’t hurt Peter. He’s all I have… Please…”_

_The dark figure steps closer to you, his form shrouded by the familiar glimmer. The smell makes your eyes water. He continues until his face is mere inches from yours, and by then the stench is unbearable. His smile is wide, wider than any human should be able to achieve. His teeth are rotten and blackened._

_“My love,” he whispers your name, “that is the only thing I intend to do.”_

_His teeth strike your neck before you even have time to scream._

~*~

You bolt upright in bed, scream lodged in your throat, and a calming hand presses against your chest.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, honey! You’re safe, you’re at home!” Your mother’s voice cuts through your panic, and you look up into her warm smile. Your father is standing behind her as she sits at your bedside.

“M… mom? Dad? What are you doing in my room?”

She strokes your hair slowly, just like she did when you had nightmares as a kid. Somehow it holds no comfort now. “We heard you screaming and wanted to come check in on you, sweetie.”

“Yeah,” your dad continues, “you gave us a real scare there, kiddo.”

“What…?” You rub the sleep from your eyes, and then slowly realize that you had locked the door before going to bed last night. You’d had the only key to your door, ever since you started high school.

Had they picked your lock? What on earth was going on?

“Guys, I gotta… can you leave, please? I need to get ready for school.” Amongst the unsettled confusion, you feel the briefest sense of relief that you had packed your things and stowed them in your truck last night before anyone else got home.

“Oh no, honey, you aren’t going to school today.” Your mother’s smile widens. It isn’t reaching her eyes. “Today is the big day we’ve all been waiting for!”

“Big… day…?” Nausea tugs at your stomach.

“That’s right, today is His Rebirth!” Your dad leans down, placing his hand on your mom’s shoulder. Together, they look like some sort of twisted Norman Rockwell drawing. The ideal nuclear parents.

“His…?”

“Of course.” Your mom stands up, arm around your father’s waist. “It’s the very day we conceived you for. Who knew you would have returned the favor?”

You stand up quickly, blankets discarded against the bed, and take several steps back from your parents. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

The corners of her lips turn down. “Language, dear. I guess you had to learn about it eventually. Sweetie?”

Your father claps her on the shoulder amiably, looking between the two of you. “It’s true, kiddo. We promised Queen Leigh we would be the ones to sire His next bride. We knew you’d be beautiful- it’s all your mother’s genes, of course.” He nuzzles your mom’s cheek with his nose, and she pushes him off with a giggle.

All of the blood in your body feels like it’s come to a standstill. “I don’t…”

“Oh, honey, it’s a lot to take in. I know. But you’ve already done so much of the work yourself!” Your mother’s smile holds no warmth. You take another step toward the door as she continues. “We didn’t even have to convince you to fall in love with Peter Graham. It seems like the two of you have always been meant for each other, just like Joan said.”

You gape at her in disbelief, your mind reeling for answers. It only offers one.

_You have to leave._

“Of course,” she continues breezily, “we weren’t expecting you two to consummate the relationship so soon. We could have at least had you stop taking your birth suppressant until the wedding, but it couldn’t be helped. Maybe you’ll get pregnant after He is reborn.”

“Cons-” you trail off, mind close to snapping. The bitter sting of bile starts clawing at the back of your throat. “You knew that Peter and I had sex?!”

“Oh, we watched.” Your father agrees enthusiastically. “We’ve had cameras in your room since you started menstruating. Had to make sure no one else would take your purity before you were wed to Him! But I think we can make an exception for his vessel.” He tells you this as easily as he would tell you about the fish he caught over the weekend.

Trembling violently, you gag, hand clapping over your mouth to suppress the threatening surge of vomit. Cold sweat has broken out in a thin layer on your skin. You look at the door, wondering if you can make it out before they catch you.

“We know it’s a lot to take in, honey.” Your mother says sympathetically, “but it’s the highest honor one could receive from Him. We just want you to be happy in the path that’s been chosen for you.”

You stare at the two of them, doubting your own sanity. The act of raising you, loving you… was it all a lie? Are you just a pawn for their insane cult? Your mind is spinning and threatening to tip off into a downward spiral. As a last ditch effort to hang on to rationality, you manage a weak smile.

“You know what, Mom, Dad? You’re right… I really do appreciate everything you’ve done for me… I’m going to go downstairs and make you breakfast to show my appreciation.” 

They both smile warmly, taking the bait, blinded to your lie by their fucked-up cult faith. “Oh, you’ll make Him such a wonderful companion, sweetie!” Your mother says adoringly, striding across the room to kiss your cheek. You resist the sickening urge to punch her in the face.

“Well, I’ll head down… I’d hate to waste such a beautiful morning!” False smile still plastered on your face, you walk to your bedroom door and open it slowly. Making sure they aren’t following, you leave it cracked open, making your way down the stairs. 

You think you hear whispers in other parts of the house- is someone else here?

“Doesn’t matter,” you mutter to yourself, looking over your shoulder. They’re still in your room. You don’t want to know what they’re doing in there.

Moving as quickly as you can without making too much noise, you walk out the front door and stride to your truck, taking your keys from your back pocket. The familiar lumpy silhouette of your duffle bag is in the floorboard. Thank god you’d kept the truck locked- they hadn’t gotten to your stuff. 

Your hands are shaking too violently to put the key in the ignition, and you pause. Deep breath. Try again.

The truck’s motor guns, and you hear a muffled shriek from inside the house. Stomach lurching, you reverse out of the driveway. In your hurry, your sweaty hand slips off the gear shift. You swallow hard and try again. As you shift into drive, you see your mother throw open the door, face twisted in fury.

She reminds you of Annie Graham.

Irrationally, you flash her a wide, crazed grin, before stomping the gas pedal and peeling down your street. 

You’re _free._

“Now,” you say to yourself, eyeing your house in the rearview mirror, “let’s go get Peter.”

~*~

It’s already lunchtime when you get to school. You hadn’t seen any texts or calls from Peter since you’d woken up, and you hope nothing bad has happened to him. You pull into your spot, making absolutely sure to lock and double-lock the doors of your truck upon getting out. 

Not that there was much to steal- you had only packed some clothes, your sleeping bag, some ID papers, and all the money you’d been saving up since middle school… including some cash you’d stolen from your parents. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t anything, really. But it was enough to make you feel secure.

The weather is dark and windy, the overcast day making your hackles rise as you navigate campus on your way to Peter’s typical lunch spot. Even the student conversations seem dull and muted. You chalk it up to the pulse roaring inside your ears drowning everything else out.

Once you walk out of the building to the courtyard, you see him immediately. He’s alone at a table, staring intently at the road beyond the fence. What on earth is he looking at?

“Peter!” You call, ignoring the annoyed looks you get from nearby students. He doesn’t turn to look at you. You feel your anxiety mounting as you quickly approach his table, calling to him one more time.

He jerks, eyes wide and terrified, then his panic subsides as he realizes it’s you. You sit down across from him.

“What are you looking at?”

“I…” he swallows dryly, looking back at the road. You follow his gaze. There’s no one there. “I thought I saw a… nevermind. I’m so glad you’re here.” He reaches across the table and clasps both of your hands. His fingers are shaking.

“I’m sorry I’m late…” you debate for a moment about whether or not you should tell him about your parents. You decide to wait until later, not wanting to freak him out more than he’s already freaked out. “Had some trouble getting everything ready. Do you have what you’ll need?”

He nods, gesturing to the backpack slumped on the seat beside him. “Just some clothes and stuff. I nabbed some cash from mom and dad.” His expression softens a little. “I got a couple of Charlie’s drawings, too. I didn’t want to forget her.”

The ghost of a smile crosses your lips, and you squeeze his hand. “You’re a good big brother.”

The shrill ring of the bell interrupts your moment, and he sighs heavily, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Look on the bright side,” he attempts levity. “At least it’s our last class with Davies.”

“Yeah.” You agree, taking his hand as the two of you walk back into the building. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see several students’ gazes following you as you walk inside. 

The feeling of being watched doesn’t subside as you make your way to Mr Davies’ class. You think you’re seeing heads turn to follow you, but when you look over your shoulder, they’re gone. You can tell that Peter senses it too- he’s getting more and more tense the closer you get to the classroom.

Suddenly, almost too fast to notice, a streak of light

(glimmer)

flashes across your vision and crosses the door in front of the class. You and Peter both freeze completely still, his face going pale. He looks at you in a small panic.

“Did you just-”

“Yeah,” you cut him off, the cold sweat from before suddenly back with a vengeance. You debate whether the two of you should leave right there, but Mr Davies locks eyes with you through the door’s window and smiles. No turning back now.

“God.” Peter whimpers, anxiety evident in his voice. You squeeze his hand, trying to push down the same feelings. You’re trapped- but not forever.

“It’s okay. Last class and then we’re free. I’m right here, sweetheart.”

He glances at you and nods, taking a deep breath. The two of you walk into class.

~*~

“So, everyone feels justified: Iphigenia’s murder was commanded by the gods - so really Agamemnon had no choice. And Clytemnestra is driven by revenge, just like Orestes when he returns…”

Davies drones on at the front of the class as you sit, shoulders tense, leg bouncing. With some surprise, you’d noticed earlier that Bridget didn’t make an attempt to talk to you today. It gave you some small sense of respite.

You’d tried to make it seem like everything was okay walking in, but now you felt like your stomach was in knots. The tension from earlier had only mounted further throughout class, and as you occasionally looked back at Peter, you could tell from his pained expression that he was feeling the same way. Why wasn’t the clock moving any faster?

Suddenly, you hear a distant, muffled _click._ Charlie’s click. You freeze, blood turning to ice on your veins.

‘You imagined it. Stop letting your thoughts get the better of you. Class will be over soon.’

But your thoughts fall to the wayside as you hear another click. And then another. They eventually get pretty rhythmic, approaching ever closer to you, even as you shut your eyes and suppress panicky tears. You hear one final _click,_ right next to your ear…

“Peter, are you okay?”

Davies’ voice snaps you out of it, and you whirl around. Your stomach turns to lead, the blood draining from your face.

Peter’s arm is spiked up into the air, his face horribly contorted. It looks like he’s in an unseen vice. His eyes dart around before locking on you, pleading for help. You start to get up, but the same unseen force is holding you in your chair with an icy grip. You can’t move.

In your ear, close enough to sound like it’s inside your head, a sinister voice whispers one word.

_“Watch.”_

You can feel your muscles tense as you try to struggle from your desk, but it’s no use. As you watch helplessly, Peter makes the horribly familiar clicking noise with his tongue. His face starts to darken as he struggles for breath, horrible choking gasps

(my tongue is getting bigger)

echoing through the silent classroom. You feel tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. You hear someone ask if he can breathe, their voice as muffled as if they were underwater, when his head suddenly _slams_ onto his desk.

You try to scream, but the force holding you back keeps your throat tense. It’s hell. The air flexes, almost _eagerly_ , as Peter’s head is smeared back and forth across his desk. The horrific crunch of his nose breaking makes your insides clench. Bile threatens the back of your throat again.

His head is forced back up. He’s crying. You’re crying. He screams, _“Mom!”_

And then a spurt of blood as his face cracks onto his desk for the last time. The class shrieks. Whatever invisible force is holding you lets you go, and you scramble forward in time to catch him as he flails out of his seat, gibbering and screaming, unable to tear his eyes away from the blood pooled on his desk.

~*~

“Look, I don’t care how many times you say you _have_ to call, if his parents aren’t going to pick up the phone just let me take him to the hospital.”

You stand with your arms crossed, eyeing the school secretary. The mousy woman is practically shaking with frustration. Behind you, the school nurse is holding an ice pack to Peter’s dazed face.

The secretary addresses you angrily. “I can’t in good conscience let a student be responsible for another’s safety. It’s just too risky.”

“And what, you’d rather call an ambulance for a broken nose? Are you really that thrilled to cost the school a fortune?” You lean forward, hands on her desk, eyes narrowed. “Or maybe you’d like to explain to the Grahams that their son sat here with a broken nose and no medical attention because they were too busy to answer the phone? They would _love_ that.”

The staredown continues for several more moments before the secretary finally sighs, obviously fed up. “Fine. Take him to the hospital. I’ll keep trying his parents and let them know you did.” She makes a few quick adjustments on her computer before sending you out of the office with your bleeding boyfriend in tow.

He’s quiet, holding the ice pack from the nurse to his injured nose, arm slung around your shoulders for support. You’re almost to your truck when he finally speaks. His voice is thick and kind of gurgly. 

“Why… didn’t it kill me…?”

His eyes are watery and bloodshot. You sigh, shaking your head.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. I’m just glad it didn’t hurt you worse than it did… I’m sorry I couldn’t help.” Your lips purse. “It was keeping me at my desk. I couldn’t move.”

As you help him into the passenger seat, he offers you a bloodstained smile. “Thank god it didn’t hurt you.”

“Hey, take it easy.” You shut the door and walk around to the driver’s side, hauling yourself in. “It may just be your nose that’s broken, but we need to be careful. It could come back.”

“No,” he sounds so sure of himself as he winces and adjusts the ice pack. “It never hurts us when we’re in here.”

As you pull out of the parking lot, he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “You aren’t actually taking me to a hospital, are you?”

“Of course I am. I can’t splint a broken nose. You need medical attention.”

“Come on,” he protests, eyes widening. “We could make it now. I’m okay.”

“And have you bleed all over yourself? Not a chance. There’s nothing in the world more suspicious-looking than that. We’ll let them patch you up and then we’ll take off.”

He sighs heavily, wincing once more, and settles back into his seat. Neither of you can bring yourselves to talk further about what happened in the classroom.

“I promised I’d protect you.” You say after the silence grows too thick, “And I’m going to. I’m not going anywhere.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his eyes close. He nods. “Thank you.” When he reaches over to hold your hand, it’s bloody and ice cold.

You don’t let go of Peter’s hand until you get him to the hospital. 

~*~

A few hours later, after a lengthy emergency room wait and some fiddling from the nurse practitioner, Peter’s medicated and bandaged up. The weary-looking doctor hands you a slip of paper while your boyfriend sits upright on the exam table, head lolling from the painkillers.

“Here’s his prescription, you can take that to his parents. He needs to keep the splint on for at least a week to give the cartilage time to reset. You said he did this to himself?”

You nod, unable to look him in the eye. “Yes. Nervous breakdown. He’s been very stressed.”

“I see.” The doctor’s tone makes it clear that he doesn’t entirely believe you. “Well, just tell his parents that-”

He’s cut off by muffled, panicked voices outside the exam room. You recognize one of them. 

‘Oh, fuck.’

Steve Graham comes barging in, eyes bugging, sweat glistening on his forehead. The moment he sees Peter he makes a sound like a hurt animal, looking between you and the doctor.

“What the hell happened?!”

“Mr Graham,” you start, but the doctor cuts you off, giving Steve the full scope of his son’s injuries. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Peter stir at the sound of his father’s voice, but for the most part he remains semi-conscious. 

“I want him discharged and sent home this instant.” Steve demands, voice firm but scared. The doctor agrees that it’s safe for Peter to go home and says he’ll have a nurse come in with the paperwork before making a swift exit, leaving just you and Steve.

The older man looks at you with a combination of anger and pity that makes your stomach wrench. You can feel your hope of escape shattering into a million pieces.

“At first, I thought my wife was too harsh in her treatment of you.” He mutters, voice quivering. “But now I agree with her. You are to stay away from my family from now on. Everything was fine until he met you.”

Guilt and despair wrack your body in waves, tears welling up in your eyes before you can stop them. “Mr Graham, please, I just wanted to-”

“I don’t give a shit what you want.” He spits venomously, moving to stand between you and the barely-conscious Peter. “Leave my son alone. Now get out before I call security.” His tone is threatening, but the look in his eye reminds you of a cornered animal. Defeated, yet still looking for any last resort to stay alive.

It is obvious that blaming you is the last solution he can come up with.

“... I’m sorry.” You manage, choking back tears as you turn to leave. It’s useless, and the tears come anyway as you leave the hospital. This was your only chance to save him and now you had nowhere to go. No one to save. As you walk back to your truck, the glimmer bounces between reflective rays of sunlight.

 _“That’s it,”_ The whisper from the classroom echoes in your ear suddenly. You’re too tired to be afraid. If anything, it’s comforting. _“You’ve lost everything. Now just come to me. Let him go and come to me.”_

As you sit heavily in your truck, whispers still in your head, you close your eyes and let your head rest on the seat. Maybe it was never meant to be. Maybe, just maybe…

A rustling catches your attention suddenly, and your eyes snap open. Peter left his backpack in the passenger seat, and the wind from your open window is rustling a piece of paper sticking out of the front pocket.

Curious, the whispers quieted, you lean forward and pull it out.

It’s one of Charlie’s drawings. A childish, yet talented drawing of Peter playing with Max. Tears start to drip from your lashes as you gaze at it, admiring it, feeling the icy dread encasing your heart slowly melt.

“No matter what happens, we stay together.” you murmur to yourself with a smile. “Thanks, Charlie.”

Gently tucking the drawing back into the backpack, you gun the motor of your truck and steer out of the parking lot. It’s time to pay the Graham house one last visit.

~*~

It’s dark when you finally arrive, a gentle snow falling outside as you steer onto their street. You’d made a few stops before going, waiting until the cover of nightfall, getting some extra essentials for your trip. It’s now or never. You flex your fingers on the steering wheel and take a deep breath, thoughts clear, fixated on your goal.

Saving Peter.

You turn the headlights off and idle the engine just outside of the Graham’s driveway, relieved to see no lights except for the flickering of a fire in the living room window. ‘Everyone must be asleep,’ you think to yourself. ‘Thank god for that.’

The first thing you hear upon getting out of the car is a faint whining. The combination of the snowfall and thick darkness make it hard to see, so you pull out your phone and use it as a flashlight. You follow the whine up the driveway, around the side of the Grahams’ car, and quickly find its source.

“Max?”

The golden retriever is whimpering and shivering violently in the snow, tail tucked between his legs as he stares up at you woefully. He looks exhausted.

“Jesus, boy, you scared me! What are you doing out here in the cold? C’mon, over here.” You kneel down on your haunches and beckon him closer. He approaches cautiously, but once he has your scent, his defensive pose eases a little bit and he licks your hand. You give him a vigorous scratch between his ears.

“Come on, Max.”

He follows you back to your truck and eagerly hops up into the cab when you open the door, curling up on the passenger seat. “Wait here. I’ll be back soon with Peter.” He yips playfully in response, the danger of the situation lost on him now that he’s warm and safe.

‘So now I’m kidnapping the Grahams’ dog, too. Super.’

You lock the truck and continue your slow, hesitant walk up to the house. It looms over you in the darkness, watching you, filling you with a dread so immense it makes your knees weak. The only thing urging you forward now is Peter. You made a promise. You intend to keep it.

Suddenly, a few feet away from the front door, your thoughts are interrupted by a strange sound from inside. A sharp clanging sound, followed by a sustained reverb that continues for several seconds. The piano, maybe?

Pulse hammering in your chest, you try the front door, only to find that it’s unlocked. Swallowing hard and taking a deep breath, you open it.

The smell hits you in a wave so powerful you almost stagger back. It’s sickly-sweet, pungent, making your throat constrict and your eyes water. Combined with a charred, fleshy smell.

Smoke and rotting meat.

You wipe off your sweaty palms on your jeans, pushing forward. Find Peter. Save Peter.

Upstairs, you hear the muffled creak of a door opening and freeze in your tracks. One of Peter’s parents? Or worse, the thing at school, come back to finish the job? Your eyes practically vibrate in their sockets as you stand completely still, scanning the ceiling. 

“Mom? Dad?”

Peter’s voice makes the tension ebb from your muscles and you approach the stairs, still on edge, making sure they won’t hear you. “Hello?” You hear him call again, now at the top of the stairs. He sounds scared. Why does he sound so scared?

“Peter,” You stage-whisper at the bottom of the stairs. His footsteps slow, then hurry down once he recognizes the voice. He whispers your name with relief. His face is bruised and still bandaged heavily, but seeing him is enough to almost make you cry. You embrace him tightly, breathing in his scent, unable to suppress your smile.

Then you pull back and gesture to the door. “C’mon, we have to go.”

“I don’t know,” he whispers, looking around. “I can’t figure out where Mom and Dad are.”

“If they aren’t here, that makes our job easier. Come on, before my truck gets snowed in-”

A sudden noise from the living room makes you both freeze, and you feel his arms tense. You can see the firelight flickering 

(glimmering)

through the doorway, but no other sign of movement. A pregnant silence follows. You swear you can hear whispers.

Peter looks at you for a moment, gaze hardening, before resigning himself to his curiosity and approaching the living room. “No- _Peter-”_ You whisper, but he’s already walked around the corner and out of sight.

A few seconds of silence pass. Then you hear a muted gust of air, choked and panicky.

You hurry around the corner behind him and see what caused the noise.

Peter is standing frozen in front of a charred, twisted black mass on the carpet. Its limbs are grotesquely illuminated by the fire’s light, arched and agonized. Your mind grapples to make sense of what you’re looking at. The head has been decapitated, pink and red flesh contrasting violently with the charred skin. The smell.

There’s a wedding ring on its left hand.

“Peter. Peter, we have to go. Peter, we have to go _right now-”_

The moment you grab his hand, Annie Graham bursts screaming out of the darkness beyond.

White-hot fear explodes behind your eyes, in a rush so visceral and raw you don’t realize you’re running until you’re almost at the door. Peter’s hand is grasped tightly in yours and he follows, his shrieks high and panicky, feet scrabbling for purchase on the carpet. 

The screaming woman chases you through the foyer and, as you open the front door and shove Peter outside, takes a vicious swipe at your face. 

Her long nails sink sickeningly deep into the side of your head, pain blooming red across your vision. You manage to tear yourself away and wrench out the front door, Peter’s hand still tight in yours, sprinting toward your truck. 

You can hear Max barking feverishly from the inside of the cab and, out of the corner of your eye, see other silhouettes from behind the house coming towards you both. 

They’re screaming for Peter.

“Come on, come on,” you hiss, hauling the driver’s side door open. Peter, never once stopping to look behind him as his mother comes screeching out of the front door, wrenches open the passenger door and closes it the moment you gun the motor. 

Adrenaline pounds in your ears. Your eyes blaze. The headlights flash, illuminating at least fifteen people sprinting towards the car. You realize with a wave of revulsion that they’re naked.

Annie makes it to the truck first, slamming her blood-soaked hands on the hood, her ghastly features uplit by the harsh high beams. A low noise of horror rips itself from your lungs as her vacant eyes, blazing and hateful, stare directly into yours. You slam your foot down on the gas pedal.

She falls to the ground in a sprawled heap as you reverse, not even bothering to look behind you, sobbing unevenly and peeling away from the house. Your heart feels like a hollow drum in your chest.

You made it.

You can feel Peter shaking- violently- and his fists are balled up into the sleeves of his hoodie as he just cries into them. Muffled, horrified cries of anguish that chill you to the bone. Max curls up beside him, whimpering quietly. Your gaze shifts from the road in front of you to the rearview mirror, waiting for a glimmer to cross the dark abandoned street. But the cultists are far behind you now.

It’s then that the adrenaline starts to wear off, and you realize with a sinking realization how much blood you can feel flowing down your neck from the gashes Annie left with her nails.

And how you can’t see out of your right eye.

It doesn’t stop you from driving until the Graham house is far out of sight, until you’re past the outskirts of town and the only thing between you and the endless road is low adrenaline and an even lower gas tank. You ease the car into the lot of a 24-hour station on the city limits and sit there, white-knuckling the steering wheel, your one good eye staring straight ahead. The only sound in the car is Peter’s broken whimpering.

You finally turn to look at him.

He’s managed to curl himself into a ball on the passenger seat, the sleeves and neck of his hoodie soaked with sweat and tears and who knows what else. Max has crept down into the enclosed safety of the floorboard and is already falling asleep.

He’s still trembling, his bruised eyes so swollen from crying that you can barely see through the matted lashes. Several moments pass as the two of you just stare at each other.

You open your arms and he dives into them, his cries muffled against the fabric of your shirt as you pull him close. You feel it all- hopelessness, trauma, grief, and a gutting horror so deep and intense it couldn’t possibly be contained in one person. You just hold him close, matching his sobs with your own, ignoring the flares of pain coming from your injured eye. You cry into his dark hair and thank every power there is that he’s alive.

You aren’t sure how long the two of you cry, but by the time you look up, the sun is starting to rise. Peter’s sobs have devolved into soft hiccups. You bring a hand to his cheek and tilt his face up, gently kissing his forehead. His eyes are glassy and exhausted. “Peter?”

His voice is paper-thin. “Yeah..?” Do his eyes even see you?

“Peter, we’re okay now. We made it.”

Yes. Red-rimmed and dry, his eyes focus on you completely. He doesn’t smile- you don’t know if he can- but his hand slides down to meet yours. Your fingers intertwine. “Your eye,“ that papery whisper again, “They hurt you. God… I’m so sorry...” His lips begin to tremble again. “What if they find us again?” The crack in his voice makes your heart wrench. 

You squeeze his hand, reaching up to wipe his tears away. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine. I’m always gonna protect you.” Your hand lingers on his cheek. “I made a promise, remember?”

Peter’s dark eyes flutter closed as he leans into your touch. The permanent furrow that’s taken up residence between his eyebrows relaxes slightly as you rub soft circles against his temple with your finger.

And then he leans forward again, and rests his head on your shoulder. Too exhausted to sleep, but too drained to move, you just drape your arm around him, gazing at the watery sunrise.

The two of you have nothing except some measly cash and a truck. Your first goal is to escape the cult members, but they could be anywhere. Anyone. You can’t stop Peter’s dreams- or yours, for that matter. You don’t even know if you could leave him alone. Would that matter? Would they find you anyway? 

As you look down at him now, you realize he’s somehow managed to fall asleep. Slow, steady breaths puff warm air against your neck. His dog snoozes away at his feet. You smile softly, using a free hand to brush his hair back and gently place a kiss to his temple. “I love you.”

Whatever happens, you’ve both escaped. You’re going to keep him safe. And as you gaze out the window at the seemingly endless stretch of road, you realize that you don’t need anything else.

END 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. I saved the dog.
> 
> Anyway, there it is! I'm glad I could make so many people happy with my silly wish fulfillment fantasy that somehow turned into a multi-thousand word epic. And all that for my first published Ao3 work, too. Golly! Thank you so much for all the support and encouragement, y'all. You've made this process so much more fun. I'll have to write for this fandom more.
> 
> Until next time! xx, P&B


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out 'Bono Malum Superate' is just latin for 'sike!'

Two years later

_**"Demonic possession** involves the belief that an alien spirit, demon, or entity controls a person's actions. Those who believe themselves so possessed commonly claim that symptoms of demonic possession include missing memories, perceptual distortions, loss of a sense of control, and hyper-suggestibility..." _

The click of the door’s lock snaps you out of your intent gaze on the screen of your laptop. You push back from your desk. The familiar jitter of the key turns in the handle, followed by the telltale creak of the front door to your cheap, tiny apartment.

“I’m home!” Peter’s voice precedes him through the door, a smile wide on his face, the resulting chorus of excited barks from Max drowning out his words as he kneels down and gives the golden retriever some vigorous head rubs. “Hey, boy. Aw, he’s a good boy, yes he _ is.” _

Standing up from your desk, you walk over to him with bated breath.”Hey, welcome home. Did the admissions office go for it?”

“Well…” he trails off, eyes downcast, his hands behind his back. You feel your stomach clench.

“Oh, baby, no. You worked all night on that application essay!” 

The mood changes as he grins, pulling out an envelope from his back pocket, emblazoned with a logo of a green ram’s head. “You’re looking at CSU’s newest freshman.”

The two of you embrace as you laugh excitedly, his lips pressed to your forehead. 

“I’m so fucking proud of you! I can’t believe it!”

“Yeah, neither can I. Class of 2022, baby! I owe it all to you.” He kisses you softly, smiling against your lips, and you playfully protest.

“You did most of the work, hon. My little psychology major.” You brush his shaggy hair back from his face, face shining with pride. “Your dad would be proud.”

His loving expression softens as he kisses you again. “Thanks, babe.”

Peter slips his shoes off, giving Max another well-meaning pet, as he walks past you. “Wanna celebrate tonight? Are you working?”

“Nope, I called out for the day. Knew I’d either need to be celebrating with you or picking you up off the floor from your sadness puddle.” You’re distracted for a couple seconds by Max leaning into your hand, tongue lolling out of his mouth happily, and then you realize Peter isn’t responding. You look over your shoulder.

His gaze is on your laptop, features twisted in a combination of pity and accusation. “Baby-” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Why are you still looking up this stuff? I thought we agreed to leave it all behind us.”

“I know,” you sigh, “I’m just still having nightmares. I guess feeling informed about it helps me feel like I’m more in control. And I wanna make sure nothing else bad happens to us.” Your hand subconsciously brushes over your scarred right cheek, and the glass eye resting in your socket. 

Peter closes your laptop, walking back over to you and taking both of your hands in his. “It won’t. If nothing has caught up to us now, it never will. And even if it does, we’ll be able to handle it.” His maturity awes you for a moment, your smile gentle as you squeeze his hands with a nod.

“Thank you, baby. Just… bear with my paranoia?” You ask quietly, glance shifting to the anti-demonic charms that adorn the front doorway. There are small precautions dotted all over the small apartment- salt under the windows, rosaries, charged crystals. You’d spent the better part of the last two years seeking out tokens from every faith imaginable to keep the evil at bay.

And as you gaze up into the face of the love of your life, you realize that you haven’t regretted it for a second.

“I’ll bear with anything, as long as I’ve got you.” Peter murmurs, your name soft and sweet on his lips. You find your cheeks turning pink as he leans down and kisses your neck softly. 

“Hey, hey, what happened to celebrating?” You giggle as his teeth nip at your collarbone. 

“I am celebrating,” he responds with a playful grin, reaching up and starting to unbutton his shirt.

~*~

After, the two of you lay in an exhausted heap in bed, deep breaths mingling in the warm afterglow. “Sex like that makes me wish I still smoked.” He comments breathlessly, blankets slipping from his shoulder as he sits up. Your finger strokes languidly down the curve of his spine.

The weather outside has been grey and overcast all day, and when you look at the window, you realize that it started snowing while you two were busy. “Hey, look.” Your shaky legs haul you out of bed as you walk to the window, watching the flakes drift down outside. “Glad I didn’t go to work.”

“First one of the season.” You feel his warmth as he walks up behind you, bare arms snaking around your waist, lips pressing to your shoulder. The two of you stand in silence for a few minutes, just watching the snow fall. It looks strikingly like the line of salt that trails under the windowsill. You make a mental note to pour another salt line by the front door.

You can’t ever be too careful these days.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, his breath warm against your ear. “I wish I could do as much for you as you do for me. You’re amazing.”

Blush warming your cheeks, you lean back into his arms. “The best repayment you could give me is living a good life. You’re recovering. That’s all I could hope for.” He’s close enough for you to feel his smile.

“You sound like my therapist.”

“Well, hopefully you aren’t fucking her before these conversations.” You tease, turning around and kissing him softly. 

He looks good. A little more weight on his frame, a healthy color to his cheeks, his eyes bright and fully present. All of the traces of the haggard, harrowed Peter have ebbed away over time. The trauma is still present, he still screams in his sleep and has days that he can’t get out of bed- just like you. But even still, the past two years have seen him grow into more of a mature adult than you ever could have thought possible.

As if reading your thoughts, he gives you a crooked smile. “My eyes are up here.”

“Heh, sorry. Just thinking.” You brush his hair back, pressing a little kiss to the beauty mark over his lips. “Was that the only way you wanted to celebrate?”

He pauses thoughtfully, fingers combing through your hair. “Hmm… wanna grab some food while we walk Max?” Behind him, the golden retriever’s ears perk up at the sound of his name. 

“Let’s try that new Vietnamese place on seventh. Pho would be good today.”

“You say that every day.”

“Yeah, well.” You tousle his shaggy hair, stepping away from him to pick up your discarded clothes. “I’m a woman of simple tastes. And  _ I _ proofread the application essay.” Your remark makes him snort, and lands you a playful swat on your ass as you’re bent over to pet Max.

The two of you get dressed, Max already up and wagging once he sees the winter garments going on. You’ve never met a dog who was able to predict his walks so well. As Peter kneels down to attach the dog’s leash to his collar, for just an instant, the two of them mirror Charlie’s drawing. It hangs in the place of honor on your fridge, greeting you warmly each morning. Like she’s always with you.

Your boyfriend catches you staring, and he smiles with an eyebrow raised. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” You smile, slipping your hand inside his as the two of you walk out the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go, short and sweet! It doesn't have much of an impact on the story but it's cute and fluffy and adds some nice reassurance. Also, I just wanted to write happy relaxed Peter for once.
> 
> Okay, cheers for realsies this time! xoxo, P&B


End file.
